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THE IVORY SERIES 



Each, 16mo, gilt top, 75 cents 


AMOS JUDD. By J. A. Mitchell 
Editor of “ Life ” 

lA. A Love Story. By Q 
[Arthur T. Qui ller-Couch] 

THE SUICIDE CLUB 

By Robert Louis Stevenson 

iRRALIE'S BUSHRANGER 
By E. W. Hornung 

in Preparation 

A MASTER SPIRIT 

By Harriet Prescott Spofford 

MADAME DELPHINE 
By George W. Cable 

Other Volumes to be announced 




IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 







Irralie’s Bushranger 


B Store of Bustralian BOvcnture 


BY 

E. W. HORNUNG 

n 





CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
NEW YORK, 1896 ' 


'■ V ’■ 





All Rights Reserved 




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36 , 


CONTENTS 





CHAPTER I page 

Arms and a Man, r 

CHAPTER II 

A Bad Impression, 12 

CHAPTER III 

The Broken Column, ; 24 

CHAPTER IV 

Night and Day, 36 

CHAPTER V 

An Accident, 46 

CHAPTER VI 

Two Voices, 57 

CHAPTER VII 

The Skeleton at the Dance, .... 70 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER VIII PAGE 

The Hour After, 83 

CHAPTER IX 

To Slow Music, 99 

CHAPTER X 

Irralie’s Deserts, 117 

CHAPTER XI 

The Real Thing, 130 

CHAPTER XH 

The Men at the Hut, 146 

CHAPTER XIII 

P- S., 157 


IRRALIFS BUSHRANGER 


CHAPTER I 

ARMS AND A MAN 

‘‘ Coooooooo-eeeee ! ” 

The voice was very hoarse and far away. 
But Irralie had fancied she heard something 
before. And this time she felt sure enough 
to stop the horses in their own length, while 
she herself stood up to peer this way and 
that across the tufts of salt -bush and the 
spaces of pure sand. 

Yet at first no sign of life intervened be- 
tween the buggy and the Seven-mile Whim 
whose black timbers stood out like a gallows 
against the setting sun. The whim, how- 
ever, was a league away. Irralie accordingly 
looked right and left ; and on the right a 
five- wire fence ran east and west into twilit 


2 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


space ; but on the left a clump of box-trees 
grew a couple of hundred paces from the 
track. Clearly the clump was the place; 
and, even as she turned her horses, the girl 
saw a flash and a puff on its outskirts, fol- 
lowed by a sharp report. 

Irralie Villiers was used to firearms. A 
dead Riverina turkey and an empty fowling- 
piece lay at her feet at the present moment ; 
and the shot from the clump only made her 
urge her horses the harder in its direction. 
It was obviously a signal of distress, and a 
little rough driving showed Irralie who had 
fired it. A tall, ragged fellow stood with 
his back to the trees, as still as they; his 
wide-awake was on the ground in front of 
him, and the wet hair clung to his white 
forehead. Also on the ground, in separate 
heaps, lay a shrunken bay horse and a singu- 
larly shabby saddle, bridle, and valise. 

The girl drove up with a single word : 

Water ? 

‘‘Have you got any?” cried the man, 
spitting out a leaf as he came forward. 


t 


ARMS AND A MAN 3 

‘‘No; but jump up, and I’ll drive you 
straight to the tank. Can your horse 
move ? ’ ’ 

“We’ll see.” 

'And the man knelt over the helpless an- 
imal, slipped on the bridle, and coaxed it to 
its four feet. 

“Now tie him on behind,” said Irralie, 
“ and put your saddle and valise under the 
seat. There’s a tank not a mile from this 
spot. ’ ’ 

“ If only I’d known ! ” 

“You couldn’t. How long have you 
gone without? ” 

“Oh, for hours; not that there’s much 
wrong with me ; it was the poor brute 
knocked up, not I.” 

“ I should have said you were at death’s 
door by all that shouting and shooting ! ’ ’ 

The man laughed, showing beneath a 
heavy mustache a row of teeth more than 
presentable. He had fallen asleep beside his 
horse, and awoke only just in time. An- 
other moment, and the buggy would have 


4 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

been out of earshot ; there was no time to 
give chase, but only to do as he had done. 
Certainly he felt queer for want of water ; 
but that was all. 

Meanwhile, Irralie was steering her horses 
across country to the tank, and that as fast 
as the bay could follow. Leaning back at 
her side, the man scrutinized his deliverer 
with a glance bold to insolence. The girl 
was very young, and tall and slim ; yet bod- 
ily weakness was as little apparent under the 
close-fitting sleeves of that period as infirm- 
ity of purpose in the alert, good-tempered, 
sunburnt face. Her hair and eyebrows were 
absolutely black ; the latter, indeed, a little 
heavy for her sex ; but the eyes themselves 
were the blue, continual havens of a smile 
no lips could equal, and the girl was written 
fearless and frank by her mere expression. 
A hearty voice and a blunt way of speaking 
were further characteristics, duly noted by 
the time the tank was reached, and man and 
beast drinking ravenously side by side. 

The former was dressed like a common 


ARMS AND A MAN 5 

stockman — with a difference in the stock- 
man’s favor. He wore the orthodox rough 
shirt and baggy mole-skins ; but the humble 
legging was replaced by a riding -boot of 
piratical length ; and from a pocket of the 
dilapidated, loose coat there peeped the 
butt end of the revolver recently discharged. 
Now, revolvers were not even then in every- 
day use in the bush ; nor were long, boots 
often seen in the stirrups of the common 
stockman ; and the girl felt a puzzled awe in 
thus encountering so new a type. She was 
taken, however, with her protege ’x appear- 
ance, which was quite romantically devil- 
may-care ; and she chiefly viewed him with 
a very genuine curiosity as he returned to 
the buggy, dashing the water from his long 
mustache. 

‘‘Now we can push on for ourselves,” 
said he. “ You have saved us both, and we 
are grateful. Allow me to relieve you of 
my saddle and valise.” 

“ But may I ask where you are going ? ” 

“ Surely ; to the station.” 


6 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


This station ? Arran Downs ? ’ ’ 

Why, yes ; but I really can’t think of 
putting you to any more trouble. I am 

quite well able to ride ’ ’ 

Nonsense ! ” said Irralie. ** Your horse 
isn’t quite well able to carry you. What do 
you ride ? ’ ’ 

Fourteen stone or so.” 

‘‘ Then tie him on again, and jump up at 
once. ’ ’ 

It was done with a shrug — ^and subsequent 
alacrity. 

‘‘ Then you belong to this station? ” said 
the man, reseating himself in the failing light. 
But Irralie preferred to regain the track in 
safety before replying ; and the question was 
put again. 

Oh, yes ! I’m the manager’s daughter. 
I beg your pardon ; now it’s all right, we’re 
in the straight. ’ ’ 

“ You are, then, a Miss Villiers?” 

‘a am.” 

“And you think nothing of driving about 
alone with a buggy and pair ? ” 


ARMS AND A MAN 


7 


“ Nothing in the world. The gates are 
the only drawback. Do you mind opening 
this one ? ’ ’ 

Not in the least.” 

She waited for him in the farther paddock. 

‘‘You’re not coming for work, I sup- 
pose ? ’ ’ 

“ Well, I wasn’t.” 

“ To stay ? ” 

“ Yes, if I can be put up.” 

“ No doubt it can be done. But you’re 
a parlor man ? ’ ’ 

“ A parlor man ! ” 

“ I mean to say you’re for the house, not 
for the hut ? ’ ’ said Irralie, judging him by 
the ear rather than the eye, and not very 
certain of him yet. “You see, we put up 
everybody ; only the men go to the travel- 
ler’s hut, and the — the ” 

“ Exactly ! Well, I had thought of the 
house; still, if you’re full ” 

“We are fuller than usual ; but of course 
there’ll be room. And you will be welcome 
to it. But I wish you would tell me one 


8 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER. 


thing : why on earth do you carry about a 
loaded revolver ? ’ ’ 

In the buggy there was silence. Irralie 
glanced over her left shoulder, but now there 
was darkness too. 

“Isn’t it the proper thing to do?” he 
asked at length. 

“Far from it,” replied Irralie, severely. 

“ But what about bushrangers ? ” 

“ Bushrangers ! There are none. They 
are all dead and gone. ’ ’ 

“ What about — Stingaree ? ” 

“ Stingaree ! I forgot him. He’s the 
man who stuck up the Mount Brown gold- 
escort. Oh, yes, I’ve heard a lot about 
Stingaree.” 

“ I wonder what you have heard.” 

“That he’s a bit of a duke — in fact, an 
Oxford man ! ’ ’ 

“ Would you know him by sight ? ” 

“ / shouldn’t ; but, as it happens, we 
have a man here who would.” 

“ A man I shall meet to-night? ” 

“Oh, no! a whim-driver — the whim- 


ARMS AND A MAN 


9 


driver at the far end of the last paddock — 
our Seven-mile. ‘ Deaf Dawson,’ the men 
call him. He once knew Stingaree, he says ; 
but he hardly ever comes into the home- 
station. You must go out to the Seven-mile 
if you want to interview him, and you’ve got 
to do that through his ear-trumpet ! He’ll 
tell you Stingaree never came so far south as 
this in his life; and I tell you he’d better 
not.” 

“ You would give him a pretty bad time, 
eh. Miss Villieis?” 

‘‘ My word ! ” said Irralie. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied the other 
devoutly, “ for I carry that pistol solely on 
account of Stingaree ! I wasn’t to know he 
drew the line at a given degree of latitude. ’ ’ 
“ I don’t say he does,” returned the girl. 
‘ ‘ I only say he better had ! ’ ’ 

Again they drove in silence into the night ; 
then the moon got up in their teeth, and 
licked the barrels of Irralie’s fowling-piece. 

“ Why, you carry firearms yourself! I’d 
forgotten that. Miss Villiers.” 


lO 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


I do; but not revolvers,” said Irralie, 
and not because of Stingaree.” 

I see ! ” 

‘‘But to shoot fair game,” concluded Ir- 
ralie, severely. “To-day it was a fatted 
turkey for the great occasion of to-morrow’s 
Sunday dinner. ’ ’ 

“It is to be a great occasion, then ? ” 

“ You bet it is ! ” cried Irralie Villi ers. 
“You mayn’t have heard that this station 
has been bought by a new chum of an Eng- 
lishman with a handle to his name ? But it 
has, though ; and much we care about the 
handle ! A beggarly younger son, that’s 
all he is ; but if he was a lord and a duke 
in one it would make no difference to us ! 
He’ll make a fine mess of it, that’s one 
thing sure. Fullarton his name is — the 
Honorable Greville Fullarton ! Put that 
in your pipe and light it. ’ ’ 

“And — and what do you expect him to 
be like?” 

“Don’t ask,” replied the girl, warmly. 
“Nice words couldn’t tell you. However, 


ARMS AND A MAN 


II 


we shall find him at the homestead when we 
get in ; and there are the lights. ’ ’ 

Her companion looked sidelong at Irralie; 
then, hesitating, at the constellation of lights 
which had burst upon them unawares ; and 
so made up his mind. 

‘‘We shall riot find him there,” said he, 
with a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry to con- 
firm your worst suspicions, but the fact is. 
Miss Villiers, I’m the man himself! ” 


CHAPTER II 


A BAD IMPRESSION 

Who was the Hon. G. Fullarton, and 
what did he want with a station in New 
South Wales? These and kindred questions 
were bandied from block to block of the. 
honored territory; but only the first was 
susceptible to a plain, straightforward reply. 

The pedigree of the young man could be 
ascertained from accessible sources ; his mo- 
tives (when he had any) were somewhat 
farther to seek. Pleasure, idleness, and ad- 
venture were the gods of this reactionary off- 
spring of a peer who was also a divine ; yet 
the mauvais sujet of this ancient family 
would have been the stainless pride of many 
another of equal antiquity but inferior ideals. 
Greville Fullarton had never been bankrupt, 
nor party to a scandalous suit, nor a living 


A BAD IMPRESSION 


13 


excuse of any sort or kind for the blasphe- 
mies of the half-penny evening enemy. On 
the other hand, he was the impious member 
of a family otherwise united in piety — a 
goat among sheep, a wanderer, a ne’er-do- 
weel, and a chronic grief to good gray 
hairs. 

How he came by the money for Arran 
Downs — which was purchased in a good sea- 
son, when the head of sheep ran very nearly 
into six figures — was as great a mystery in 
the old country as in the new. Yet in Lon- 
don they told a little story, which rather 
lent itself to deduction, where one happened 
to know how little the old Earl had spent on 
himself, and how much he must be worth. 

It was said that Mr. Greville had dropped 
from the clouds into his father’s town house 
one morning in time for prayers, but clad in 
Californian rags, and such boots that even 
the Earl could not permit him to kneel down 
before the servants. He had been two 
years away, and in all that time had written 
not at all. But it was said he related his 


14 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


adventures on this occasion with so much 
frankness and vivacity that the old peer was 
moved to lament the purposeless character 
of his son’s exploits rather than those ex- 
ploits themselves. And here the story ends ; 
but that same season saw the purchase of 
Arran Downs through London agents, and 
Esau started at the summer’s end for another 
summer in one of the few wildernesses he 
had yet to explore. 

The day had been hot indeed for the end 
of October, when the thermometer rarely 
touches a hundred in the shade ; but even 
at that temperature Mrs. Villiers had not 
rested from sorting linen, selecting napery, 
cleaning silver, and watching over the Chi- 
nese cook in the wattle - and - dab kitchen. 
All day the storekeeper had been cleaning 
out his store, the overseer running up fresh 
horses from outlying paddocks, and Mr. 
Villiers himself fixing new ropes on two of 
the whims. For the rest. Miss Villiers (as 
we have seen) had been following the chase, 
and her younger brothers and sisters a less 


A BAD IMPRESSION 


15 

exciting routine with their raw, strict, pub- 
lic-school tutor. 

At Arran Downs a single note had been 
received from the new owner naming the 
day he was likely to arrive. As the hour 
was not mentioned, all things were ready by 
about the middle of the day ; and by even- 
ing the feeling of the garrison expressed it- 
self in a universal inability to sit down. 
The veranda was paced as though it had 
been a vessel’s deck — the horizon swept as 
though it had been the sea. At six there 
was open dissatisfaction, and the young 
Villierses, who had been decently dressed, 
and even partially subdued, for some hours 
— these young ruffians broke out, and drove 
their tutor in despair to the school-room, be- 
cause his jurisdiction did not extend beyond 
those weather-board walls. 

But when night set in, Mr. Villiers (a 
blue-eyed man with a fair beard and bad 
teeth) was heard to close his watch with a 
snap and to announce that he would wait no 
longer. The new owner might be given up 


1 6 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

for that night; as for Irralie, she had no 
business to be so late, but something could 
be kept hot for her. Luckily, however, 
they had not sat down when Irralie and the 
owner arrived together, evidently on the 
best of terms already. For Irralie intro- 
duced him, briefly explaining what had hap- 
pened, but dwelling very lightly (it was 
noteworthy) on the incident at the clump, 
and never mentioning the pistol-shot at all. 
Fullarton shook hands all round with the 
utmost geniality. It was too dark in the 
veranda for his extremely rough exterior to 
be appreciated, and Mr. Villiers made his 
prepared speech with a glibness which he 
afterwards regretted. 

‘‘I must apologize, Mr. Fullarton, for 
being still here with my belongings; but 
as I didn’t know your arrangements, I 
thought we had better all hold on till 
you came. They thought so in Melbourne 
too. Everything is ready for you, how- 
ever, and I think I may say in no bad order 
either. 


A BAD IMPRESSION 17 

The new owner slapped the other on the 
back. 

My dear sir, I hope to goodness you 
aren’t thinking of deserting me? Do you 
expect me to run this place by myself, and 
without knowing how? Let things go on 
as they are for another year at least ; then, 
if we must, we can talk of it again.” 

In the same manner he very properly de- 
clined to take the head of his own dinner- 
table; and the impression was distinctly 
favorable until the rough shirt and ragged 
coat came to anchor immediately under the 
lamp. There fell then an embarrassed si- 
. lence. Mrs. Villiers had made herself a new 
gown for the occasion. The tutor had 
saved up his tallest collar. Everybody had 
made some little difference, and the condi- 
tion of the Englishman was an inexplicable 
insult to one and all. 

Heavy, excellent George Young, the 
overseer, was perhaps the most indignant 
spirit at the table. But the English tutor, 
Hodding by name, endured the keenest dis- 


2 


1 8 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

appointment. The overseer and the store- 
keeper were natives of the colony ; so were 
the entire managerial brood. Hodding had 
counted upon the arrival of an even newer 
chum than himself ; he had pictured a suffi- 
ciently taking type, in rough English tweeds 
and ponderous boots. The same lively 
fancy had painted every cornstalk green with 
envy; and what had happened? Jevons, 
the storekeeper, was kicking him under the 
table ; honest George Young looked green, 
indeed, but not with envy ; and the son of an 
Earl was eating as heartily as if he looked 
what he was, instead of calling to every 
mind the common, ruffianly, pound-a-week 
hand. 

‘‘There is one more thing I must apolo- 
gize for,” said Mr. Villiers, a little tact- 
lessly, before they left the table. “We 
hardly thought to see you before the Cup ; 
and we expect a few folks here on Monday 
night, on their way down to it.” 

“To the Melbourne Cup?” said the 
owner, with his mouth full. “ Yes, I hear 


A BAD IMPRESSION 


19 


it’s a great race ; but the turf’s about the 
only evil I ever steered clear of. ’ ’ And he 
continued to eat, as he had eaten from the 
beginning, like a half-starved man. 

The manager hummed. His confession 
was not yet complete. 

‘^The fact is,” he continued, ‘‘we 
thought it an opportunity to entertain our 
friends — possibly our last. To tell you the 
truth, we have something like a party on 
the day after to-morrow. When I got your 
letter I did think of putting it olf. But, on 
second thoughts, that struck me as all the 
more reason for a general muster of such 
society as we can boast in these wilds. It 
was an opportunity for the country-side to 
meet you, Mr. Fullarton.” 

The owner looked up aghast. 

“ To meet 7ne he cried. 

“Why, yes, to be sure. They are all 
most anxious to make your acquaintance. 
You must know that you have supplied our 
papers with a topic for these many weeks 
past.” 


20 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


But look at my clothes!” cried the 
other. ** You must have noticed them; and 
I would have apologized for them before, 
Mrs. Villiers, had I not felt too ashamed. 
It is all owing to a mistake. I have noth- 
ing better in my valise. But I believe my 
portmanteaus are on the way up by the 
coach. ’ ’ 

‘‘That’s all right; then they’ll be here 
to-morrow,” said the manager, with relief 
only second to that of the tutor. “And 
now if you’ll join me in a pipe on the ve- 
randa — for I haven’t a cigar fit to offer you 
— I believe the Company have furnished you 
with some little papers which we ought to 
look into together ? ” 

All had risen from the table, and with 
a fortunate precipitancy the younger men 
had left the room. There were witnesses 
enough, however, of the painful flush which 
now suffused the features of the new owner. 
And Irralie was one. 

“I am very much afraid,” he stammered, 
“ that I have lost the papers you — you ” 


A BAD IMPRESSION 


21 


And without finishing his sentence, he 
fumbled nervously in the pockets of his dis- 
reputable coat. 

“Hadn’t you an overcoat?” asked Irra- 
lie, calmly. 

“ Yes, yes ! I had ! ” 

“ Then they may be in that.” 

“ They were — now I think of it. But I 
have lost the overcoat. I — I must have left 
it behind me when my horse knocked up ! ” 

“Then think no more about it,” said 
Villiers, instantly. “ It’ll be as safe in one 
of these paddocks as on your own back; it’s 
only a question of knowing where to look 
for it, and that we can do at our leisure to- 
morrow morning.” 

So there the subject dropped ; but it was 
something more than fortunate that not one 
of the younger men was present ; for — in 
fact — the three of them were engaged al- 
ready, in the tutor’s school-room, upon a 
systematic mutilation of the new owner’s 
character and pretensions. 

“So now, George,” said Jevons, “the 


22 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


joker we’ve heard so much about has come 
and been seen ; but I’m jolly well hanged if 
he has conquered ! These native English 
are an almighty rum race ! ’ ’ 

*‘V\\ race him,” said George Young 
venomously. ‘‘And I’m bled if I come in 
second ! ” 

The creature had driven in with Irralie 
Villiers. As yet this was his rankest offence 
in the nostrils of good George Young. 

“I don’t care what you fellows say,” 
cried the fuming tutor. “That brute’s not 
what he says he is. I’ve been at school with 
’em, and I know ! ” 

Jevons winked at Young. 

. “We know that school, eh, George? 
We’ve heard it before. We’ll hear of it 
again ; but, my faith, we’ll hear a little less 
of the home-brewed, full-grown Englishman 
after this ! ” 

“ Come outside ! ” roared the tutor in a 
frenzy. 

“ What are you givin’ us? ” 

“ Come behind the pines and take off your 


A BAD IMPRESSION 


23 


coat. I don’t care whether you hide me or 
whether you don’t ! I know you’re the bet- 
ter man, but I’m not going to sit still and 
hear you talk like that ! ” 

He flung open the school-room door, 
which looked upon a plantation of young 
pines, and allowed a flood of moonlight to 
fall upon the floor. At the same moment a 
couple passed the opening, walking side by 
side, and in striking silhouette against the 
moonlit trees. 

** My faith ! ” said Jevons, softly. 

<< Who was it?” cried George Young, 
bounding to his feet. Not Irralie and 
that ” 

‘‘Unrepresentative new chum?” said 
Jevons, with a laugh. “ So help me never, 
old man, but it was ! ” 

And the fight fell through after all. 


CHAPTER III 


THE BROKEN COLUMN 

The plantation of pines formed three 
sides of the station yard, which, indeed, 
suggested a clearing on the edge of a natural 
forest rather than a single acre left exactly as 
it was found. The square was completed 
by the first and foremost of the homestead 
buildings : a long, regular structure, framed 
in the customary veranda, but containing 
(what was less conventional) the family 
quarters and the station store beneath one 
vast, white, corrugated roof. Other offices 
had buildings to themselves, such as the 
kitchen and the cook’s room, the school- 
room and those of the three young men, 
wash-house and dairy, iron-store and black- 
smith’s forge. All these stood in hollow 
square, looking inward on the yard. And 


THE BROKEN COLUMN 


25 


with the moon shining like a tempered sun 
on every roof, and the pine-trees whispering 
on all sides but one, there were worse tasks 
than learning the names of things from the 
mouth of Irralie Villiers. 

‘‘But if I am to show you the ropes,” 
said the girl, “ I may as well show you the 
lot. The stables are quite separate. The 
stock -yards are farther still. Would you 
care to see them to-night ? ’ ’ 

He cared considerably, and appeared to 
find refreshment in the freedom of the situa- 
tion. The father had gone into the store 
to write a letter for the outgoing mail ; the 
mother had beaten a retreat earlier than 
usual after the burden and surprises of the 
day. The stranger and the girl were left to 
their own devices, without a hint of vulgar 
espionage in the name of a too self-conscious 
propriety. The stables were inspected. A 
handful of oats was taken to the night-horse 
in the yard. The men’s hut was pointed 
out on rising ground still farther from the 
house ; also a natural lawn - tennis court. 


26 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


marked out in a clay-pan ; and here Irralie 
descried a racket which had been left out, 
and picked it up. 

So you actually play lawn -tennis up 
here ! ’ ’ exclaimed the owner. 

‘^Actually! ” repeated Irralie, with fine 
scorn. ‘‘Goodness! do you think we are 
so far behind you as all that ? ’ ’ 

He laughed. “ I beg your pardon, Miss 
Villiers. Still, your rackets are behind us — 
just a season or so.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ That one is bent. They are now made 
straight as a die ! ’ ’ 

“ I don’t believe you,” cried Irralie, warm- 
ly ; and the argument ensuing was lively to 
the last degree. It ended, however, in 
laughter, swiftly followed by some consider- 
ation on the girl’s part that cut her laughter 
short. It was as if she had suddenly found 
herself in church or in the presence of death. 
She stood quite still in the moonlight, and 
looked him very thoroughly up and down. 

“ You have lived here always ? ” he said 


THE BROKEN COLUMN 27 

at length, as if unconscious of her inquisitive 
gaze. She withdrew it by an effort. 

I wish we had ! No ; most of us were 
born in Tasmania ; and that’s a lovely coun- 
try, far better than this, though personally I 
prefer the back-blocks. There’s room for 
you to turn round up here ! ” 

“ I wonder what you would . think of 
England.” 

‘‘ Not much ! I should spend my time 
on St. Paul’s Cathedral — throwing stones 
into the sea ! Follow me, Mr. Fullarton, 
there’s something else I want to show you 
before we go in ; and we can get back this 
way. ’ ’ 

She led him to a fence, squeezed through 
the wires, and crossed an open space divid- 
ing them from the fringe of the same planta- 
tion which extended to the house. This 
space was the width of a race-course, and 
struck the stranger as being planted with in- 
numerable scarecrows shorn of their last rag. 
He asked what they were, and Irralie an- 
swered, ‘‘ Our spare rooms.” 


28 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


Your what ? ’’ 

Our spare rooms for Monday night. 
On Monday you will see this strip turned 
into a street of tents ; these are the poles. 
When you go to a dance in the bush you 
stay the night. And the ladies take up all 
the rooms ; and all the men camp out. ’ ’ 

I see,” said the other ; and he followed 
Irralie’s lead among the pines. 

“You aren’t exactly keen about our 
party ! ” cried the girl, over her shoulder. 
“ Can’t you dance ? ” 

“ Not much.” 

“ I thought not! But there is something 
else ? ’ ’ 

“Yes ; there are my clothes.” 

“ I understood they were coming to- 
morrow ? ’ ’ 

“Well, I expect them, certainly.” 

‘ ^ I wonder if you do /■ ’ ’ 

And with the words the girl wheeled round 
and boldly regarded him by the light of the 
moon. 

“Really, Miss Villiers, you take my 


THE BROKEN COLUMN 


29 


breath away. Why should you doubt my 

word?” 

% 

He laughed, but he had colored first. 

‘‘Because I can’t help it ! ” replied the 
girl, with a little gasp which she would have 
given her few possessions to prevent. 

“Be frank with me. Miss Villiers. Tell 
me candidly what it is that makes you sus- 
pect me of — of whatever you do suspect ? ’ ’ 

She shook her head ; she would not or she 
could not speak; but her fine, unfaltering 
eyes never left his nor relaxed for one instant 
their soul-searching scrutiny. 

“Was it about those papers?” pursued 
the other. 

“ That — for one thing.” 

“ I see. You think I never had them at 
all! ” 

“ I think you never would have thought 
of a lost overcoat if I hadn’t put the words 
into your mouth ! ” 

There was a pause ; and the man’s face 
showed, as plainly as rent sail or splintered 
spar, that the shot had gone home. 


30 IRRALIE'S BUSHRANGER 

Why did you do it?” he cried un- 
warily. 

Y^u may well ask ! Goodness knows — 
not I ! ” 

But I have lost a coat,” he added, vehe- 
mently, perceiving his mistake. ‘‘I give 
you my word I lost one to-day ; and those 
papers were in it as certainly as that moon is 
in the sky. You may believe or doubt it as 
you like. It is the case, and you will know 
it by and by. What else is there suspicious 
about me ? ” 

Evidently he had forgotten his revolver ; 
but Irralie knew that it was in his pocket 
still, though she did not intend to remind 
him of that. His tone was both angry and 
injured, but the injury appealed to her 
more than the anger. It destroyed her self- 
confidence, and, in doing so, restored some 
confidence in him. Then she recalled her 
earliest prejudicial observation, and smiled at 
her momentary misgivings. 

There was your horse ! ” said she — and 
saw him wince at the word. 


THE BROKEN COLUMN 


31 


‘‘ What about my horse? ” 

** It had come farther than you said ; it 
had gone longer without water. A horse 
can go twice as long as a man; yet you 
were only thirsty, but your horse was hollow 
as a drum and nearly dead ! ’ ’ 

For some moments he either could not or 
would not face her eyes ; when once more 
he did so it was with a recovered calm, and 
something more than his former urbanity of 
speech. 

Will you then kindly tell me what you 
think?” 

I cannot ! ” cried the girl. ‘‘ I think 
one thing one moment and another thing the 
next. I give you up ; but as I had never 
any right to attempt to unriddle you, I also 
beg your pardon. Consider unsaid every 
word I’ve spoken; and forgive me if you 
can.” 

He laughed aloud. 

“ Forgive you. Miss Villiers ! That’s tak- 
ing it a little too seriously, I am sure. But 
— the fact is — you are right ! And upon 


32 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


my word I’ve a good mind to tell you every- 
thing on the spot ! ” 

Irralie looked in the handsome, reckless 
face, and involuntarily drew back. You 
must do as you please,” she said. 

‘‘I could trust you? Yes, yes, I could 
trust you with my life. You are not the one 
to give a fellow away ! ’ ’ 

‘‘ I hope not. But that would depend.” 
‘‘That — would — depend,” he repeated 
slowly. “ On the nature of the confidence, 
of course ! Well, well, let it rest. There 
was something else you were going to show 
me before we went in ? ” 

“ There was,” said the girl. “ Come 
this way ; it’s something that I think is cer- 
tain to appeal to you.” 

And once more she led him through the 
moonlit pines, with a heart in chaos, and 
thoughts so tangled that unravelment seemed 
as distant as the day of doom. This much 
she knew : there was a loaded pistol in his 
pocket, and the crackling of each twig was 
like the cocking of the hammer behind her 


THE BROKEN COLUMN 


33 


back. And, again, this much she knew even 
better : that she would have felt no safer out 
shooting with her father than here and now 
under the eye of this privily armed man. 

So she led him through the soft sand be- 
tween pine and hop - bush ; and the moon 
peeped over one shoulder now, and now the 
other, until at last it shone with startling 
brilliance on white palings, and on a granite 
column in the midst of them, broken as a 
tree by the wind. 

A grave!” said Irralie’s companion. 
But the girl said nothing. And when she 
looked at him his head was bare. 

Indeed the unexpectedness of the spot and 
its memorial compelled an unpremeditated 
awe ; nor could a stranger or a sweeter place 
have been chosen for the repose of human 
ashes. Homestead and outbuildings were 
alike beyond sight and sound. Here was no 
music but that of the constant cricket and 
the wind among the trees; and here, for 
days or for weeks together, no eyes save those 
of heaven itself. Companion of a thousand 
3 


34 


IRRALIE^S BUSHRANGER 


pines, yet still with a stillness which exag- 
gerated their every sound and motion, stood 
the painted palings, the simply storied ped- 
estal, the granite column snapped like a mast. 
And the spirit of the sepulchre, which all 
who came there must feel, was one unattain- 
able in sunlit, sweet-smelling cemetery or 
cool cathedral crypt. It brought the living 
nearer to the dead ; it left the dead more 
convincingly at peace and rest for ever. 

Still bare-headed, the man crept forward 
and read — 

TO 

THE MEMORY OF 

CECIL GORTON GILES, 

BORN AT HAMPSTEAD, LONDON, 

May ijf/i, 1833, 

DIED AT ARRAN DOWNS, N.S.W., 
January 4th, 18/3. 

How sad ! ” murmured Fullarton. I 
know of nothing in life like the pity of a 


THE BROKEN COLUMN 


35 


young fellow cut off in all his sins and all 
his joy. And suddenly, too ! I think this 
is the most touching tomb I have ever seen. 
Who was he ; and how did it happen ? ’ ’ 
Irralie was watching him with keen eyes. 
‘‘It was before our time,” she said; 
“ but he was a young fellow almost straight 
from his public school, like Mr. Hodding ; 
only he came up here as storekeeper. His 
people had the memorial sent up from Mel- 
bourne. But it was by his own request that 
he was buried here ; he lived some hours 
after it happened.” 

“ But what did happen ? ’ ’ 

“ A bushranger shot him through the 
lungs.” 

He looked at her sharply ; she was more 
than looking at him. Without a word he 
signified his readiness to return to the house ; 
without a word she led the way. 


CHAPTER IV 


NIGHT AND DAY 

This was one of Irralie’s bad nights. Like 
most strong characters, the girl had her com- 
plement of unexpected weaknesses, and one 
of these was an irritating inability to sleep in 
the least difficulty or the smallest vexation 
of the spirit. Another and a weaker trait 
was a certain tendency of Irralie’s to meet 
the vexations half-way and to double the 
difficulties ; but this was less generally 
known ; for an unruly imagination was bal- 
anced by a reserve almost stoical, and yet 
little suspected by those who knew only the 
high-spirited outward girl. 

Imagination and reserve were, indeed, 
characteristics of a nature otherwise breezi- 
ly courageous and independent to a fault. 
They were the two quarrelsome elements in 


NIGHT AND DAY 37 

a harmonious whole. And not for the first 
time did they pray upon each other to-night 
and tear the heart of Irralie in two between 
them. 

She imagined, or suspected, so much ; and 
was so ashamed of her suspicions, or imagina- 
tions, that she would sooner have died than 
betray a word of them to living soul. So 
she reasoned with herself through the long 
slow hours, and would prove her visions 
baseless, only to see them plainer than ever 
for her pains. 

Here was the humor of it. The man 
was not the man he represented himself to 
be. Very well ; then he must have an ob- 
ject for his imposture ; and what possible ob- 
ject could there be? Exposure must follow 
soon or late, and if robbery were the design, 
how could impersonation expedite that ? 
Plain robbery was easy enough in the bush, 
when there was anything to rob ; but what 
was there here? Gold escorts were one 
thing, sheep stations another. And a drove 
of pure merinos were surely an unwieldy 


38 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


equivalent for a few handfuls of yellow 
dust. 

Again, if it was a case of impersonation, 
what had become of the impersonated ? He 
must be somewhere — then where? Irralie 
thought of novels that she had read with 
plots founded upon this idea ; at the bottom 
of most there was a murder ; but murder 
was the one suspicion which did not plague 
her on the head of the real or soi-disant 
Greville Fullarton. 

Yet again : in such a case there would be 
reasonable precautions on the villain’s part ; 
but this villain took none. He showed his 
weapons, and he came just as he was, in his 
rough bushman’s clothes, and with his can- 
did, impudent, dare-devil smile. And at 
the conjured portrait the girl smiled too, for 
could a calculating desperado look like that ? 
But the smile froze ; for could a man who 
looked like that be the real owner, and an 
Earl’s son ? 

No ; there was something sinister and 
wrong and underhand ; moreover, the man 


NIGHT AND DAY 


39 


had nearly confessed to her what it was. 
He had been within an ace of throwing 
himself upon her mercy ! Well, she was 
thankful he had not done that. Her sus- 
picions she might keep to herself, but not 
the guilty confidences of the most attractive 
villain unhung. On the contrary, if she 
once knew him for that — well, then she 
would know also how to act. 

And yet — and yet — had she not taken his 
part — taken it actively — already ? Instinc- 
tively she had kept to herself his possession 
of arms ; instinctively also she had come to 
his aid with the ready suggestion of a lost 
overcoat. And w'hat did these instincts 
mean ? She was a girl who looked things 
in the face ; did they mean his innocence or 
her own infatuation ? In an instant she was 
out of bed, and kneeling in the moonlight, 
and praying with all her soul that it might 
be the innocence of the man which alone 
put her on his side without her will. For 
she forgot to allow for a certain large, un- 
reasonable chivalry in herself, ever likely to 


40 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


create in her a wilful sympathy with the un- 
orthodox and the ungodly ; more probably, 
however, she was unaware of the growth in 
her heart of this particular weed of original 
wickedness. 

Morning came, and with it a few minutes 
of fevered sleep ; but the girl’s dreams were 
worse than her waking imaginations ; they 
had the added terror of vagueness ; and she 
fled, rather than rose, from her bed. The 
outer veranda, whereon her room opened, 
was as still and private as her room itself. 
From it she saw the red Riverina dawn, 
across a sea of sand flecked with sage-green 
salt-bush ; and the touch of the dawn upon 
her face and feet gave her new strength 
and a first surcease from her shameful suspi- 
cions. 

And shameful was no word for them a lit- 
tle later, when cold water and clean sunshine 
had done their work, and the station day 
had begun with all its immemorial humdrum 
regularity. It was a Sunday, and the girl 
knew it by all the old, unmistakable signs. 


NIGHT AND DAY 


41 


On Sundays her young brothers ran up the 
horses ; she heard their spurs in the veran- 
da, their voices thick with biscuit, and 
finally their ponies cantering toward the 
horse-paddock gate. Irralie had then just 
shut her door ; and when next she opened it 
the boys w^ere returning with the drove of 
horses in a cloud of sand. The thunder of 
their hoofs was like the charge of cavalry, 
with stock-whips cracking for musketry. 
Nor was it possible to see and hear it for the 
thousandth time and to harbor one mo- 
ment longer the preposterous notions of 
the night. 

She walked round the house. The China- 
man was smoking his early morning pipe 
and bringing wood from the wood-heap for 
the kitchen fire. Irralie was greeted on 
every hand with the reassurance of the nor- 
mal and the imromantic. A couple of chairs 
stood side by side on the veranda, an emp- 
ty glass within reach of either. It was as 
though Irralie had seen her father and the 
owner drain and rise and part for the night 


42 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

at the latter’s door. A little after she had 
occasion to pass the door herself, when she 
heard the owner whistling as he dressed. 
And a little later yet she met her father in 
his Sunday suit. Irralie kissed him, but left 
her palms upon his shoulders, and searched 
him with a smile that made him wonder 
what was coming. 

Well, father, what do you think of our 
friend ? ’ ’ 

Fullarton ? ” 

‘‘Yes.” 

“A very excellent fellow,” declared the 
manager, with a conviction that brought a 
thankful flush to the girl’s face. “We sat 
up quite late, and I haven’t enjoyed a chat 
so much for a long time. But, mind you ’ ’ 
— and he lowered his voice — “ the man’s 
no more like an Earl’s son than you or I.” 

“How do you mean?” asked Irralie, 
paling in a moment. Luckily she was deal- 
ing with no close observer; indeed, this 
very thought contributed to her pallor : here 
was also the least suspicious of men. 


NIGHT AND DAY 


43 


“ How do I mean ? ” he said. “ Well, 
it’s a bit difficult to explain ; I like him, and 
all that, much better than I expected ; but 
then I expected a lot of gloss, and this fel- 
low has less than none. It’s all the jollier — 
only somehow it doesn’t seem quite the 
thing. Look at his clothes, for instance ! ” 
“He must have picked them up from 
some tramp and put them on for a joke,” 
said Irralie on the spur. “ But I’m glad 
you like him — and here he is ! ” 

And there he was : in clothes which fitted 
him uncommonly well to have been picked 
up in the way suggested, but which looked 
worse than ever in the full glare of day. He 
was also unshaven, and a grimy blue from 
ear to ear ; the gross effect, in the words of 
Mr. Villiers, was decidedly not “quite the 
thing.” 

Irralie returned a formal greeting and 
slipped away ; her heart was once more 
throbbing with the black doubts of the 
night ; and this time it was slowlier stilled. 
Her father and Fullarton drove off after 


44 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

breakfast to look for the lost overcoat. They 
returned before lunch without it ; nor was 
Irralie surprised. She had known exactly 
what to expect ; and anticipated with confi- 
dence the like result of a cognate quest, un- 
dertaken by the store-keeper, who had gone 
with the spring-cart to meet the mail and 
to bring back the new owner’s luggage. 

“ I only hope it’s there,” he said to her, 
with deep meaning. 

I only hope so too ! ” she replied, with 
a deeper yet. 

“ Then in ten minutes you won’t know 
me : I shall be shaved and clothed and in 
my right mind.” 

You are certainly not in it now.” 

‘‘ Indeed ? ” 

Or you would never tempt Providence 
as you are doing ! ’ ’ 

And the girl turned on her heel, loathing 
herself for the unpremeditated warning, and 
him for the inexplicable attraction which 
compelled the words in her own despite. 
Then for Irralie it was the night all over 


NIGHT AND DAY 


45 


again — with its suspicions, doubts, argu- 
ments, lapses of involuntary introspection, 
and agonies of acute self-contempt. Only 
now she could wander and rend her spirit in 
the open air ; she was no longer imprisoned 
in the dark between burning sheets. The 
scent of the pines was in her nostrils, the 
shadows of the pines striped and fluted the 
whiteness of her cool attire ; and to look at 
her, with bent head and red sunshade and 
raven hair, her maiden meditations, if not 
fancy-free, might have been guaranteed free 
as a child’s from grave concern. Yet there 
was mischief in her feet as in her mind. It 
led her to the broken column and the lone- 
ly grave ; and there it held her, still with 
thought, and gazing at the inscription with 
eyes that read not ; nor ever moving till a 
breaking twig broke also the spell that bound 
the girl. 


CHAPTER V 


AN ACCIDENT 

Irralie started. But the step was not 
Fullarton’s. And the two-edged stab of dis- 
appointment and relief, instantly experi- 
enced by the girl, alarmed her later when 
she found time to think of it. At the mo- 
ment, however, there was George Young — 
for he it was — to be faced and fenced with ; 
and one glance at his heavy, wholesome 
face discovered it alight with unmistakable 
news. 

^‘Well?” cried Irralie, and held her 
breath with the monosyllable. The lug- 
gage, like the overcoat, had not been found ! 
The impostor was already exposed ! That 
must be the news ; what else ? 

The overseer looked from Irralie to the 
inscription at the base of the column, and 


AN ACCIDENT 


47 


again significantly at the girl. Irralie could 
have struck him for the delay. 

“What’s the matter with you? Why 
don’t you speak?” she gasped. “ Some- 
^ thing has happened — and there you stand ! ” 
“Oh, it’s nothing near home, Miss Vil- 
liers; only I was just thinking, seeing the 
name of poor Giles there, that there may be 
one or two more to join him before long ! ’ ’ 
“ What do you mean ? ” 

“Bushrangers!” replied the other. 
“ Our friend Stingaree at it again 1 ” 

“ Here?” she steeled herself to say. 
“Well, no; not on the run; but some- 
where or other in these back-blocks, there 
is little doubt. You see, Jevons has just 
come back with the mail — and those 

portmanteaus ’ ’ 

“ Has he brought the portmanteaus? ” 
She steadied herself by one of the wooden 
palings round the grave. 

“Oh, yes, he’s brought than all right; 
it was about that I came to you ; but this 
bit of news is the thing that’s made us all 


48 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

sit up ! Not that he’s likely to come here, 
Miss Villiers,” continued the overseer reas- 
suringly, to unheeding ears. Stingaree 
never stuck up a station in his life. Gold- 
escorts are /iis lay; he goes where money* 
is ; still, yesterday morning it seems he 
stuck up a bush pub by way of a change. 

I suppose there was money there. I know 
the shanty — it’s over in the Balranald dis- 
trict — that is straight across country from 
here, say seventy miles by the crow. And 
that’s far enough — across country. It 
would be a different thing if it were north 
or south of us, anyw'here up or down this 
stock-route. Still — it’s near enough to be 
exciting ! ” 

Of all this Irralie had heard two sen- 
tences exactly. So not a soul save herself 
had suspected him here! And now — it 
seemed incredible — the portmanteaus had 
actually come, and even she could suspect 
nothing more. So ran her thoughts, and 
the overseer’s voice was as the babble of a 
creek. 


AN ACCIDENT 


49 


“ It was about that you came to me?” 
she repeated after him, when he had done, 
as though the words had been his last. 
They were the last that she remembered. 

About — ah, that luggage ! ” said 
George Young. He paused; and in his 
change of expression Irralie’s quickened eyes 
perceived an enemy of Greville Fullarton, 
and found herself wondering what the ene- 
my would have given for her late suspi- 
cions. That luggage,” he continued, in a 
tone changed like his face, *‘is more bother 
than it’s worth. It’s great, big, heavy, 
regular new chum’s baggage, and was bother 
enough to fetch. And now he’s got it he 
can’t get into it ! Lost every blessed key ! ’ ’ 
Lost — every — key!” repeated Irralie, 
in a voice that must have flashed her own 
idea through a brain less slow than that of 
the overseer, who, however, bore it in mind. 
It was an idea that made Irralie tremble for 
one moment — freeze the next ; and so re- 
main, with proud, white face and flashing eye. 
They said you might have one that 
4 


50 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


would fit/’ pursued Young; ^^and they 
asked me to go and look for you.” 

Who asked you ? ’ ’ 

Fullarton himself.” 

It was like his impertinence ! ” 

It was so ! I’m glad to hear you say 

that, for in my opinion a more ’ ’ 

‘‘That’ll do,” replied Irralie, tartly. 
“ Don’t hang a man before you try him ! ” 
And with a sudden, feverish haste, she led 
the way homeward through the pines ; the 
overseer following, with a very healthy 
craving for the new owner’s blood. 

On the veranda, sure enough, were the 
portmanteaus, hat - box, gun - case, and 
dressing - bag of a sufficiently new chum. 
The labels of the voyage still adhered to the 
raw, unseasoned leather. Indeed, with the 
single exception of the gun -case, everything 
was flagrantly new and redolent of the Lon- 
don outfitter. And on the largest piece of 
all, the careless centre of a keenly interested 
group, sat a picturesque, unshaven adven- 
turer, like a beggar enthroned. 


AN ACCIDENT 


51 


“You are my last hope, Miss Villiers,” 
said he, as the girl came up. “I’ve tried 
all the keys on the premises but yours. If 
you fail me ” 

“ I shall fail you,” said Irralie. “ I keep 
nothing in the world under lock and key.” 

“ Indeed ! Then I am done.” 

‘ ‘ I am afraid you are. ’ ’ 

The words were said in a way that at- 
tracted no third person’s attention. Yet 
Fullarton winced as his eyes met Irralie’s — 
winced, and then smiled. Next moment 
he was holding out his hand to one of her 
young brothers. 

“ That knife of yours,” said he. 

“ To force the lock ? ” 

Fullarton took the knife without replying, 
opened the big blade, got lazily to his feet, 
and as lazily reseated himself, cross-legged, 
on the veranda- boards, within reach of the 
brass and leather fastenings. The circle of 
inquisitive faces had closed in upon him when 
he paused to search it for the face of Irralie. 
All he saw was her black hair vanishing. 


52 


IRRALIE^S BUSHRANGER 


Don’t go away, Miss Villiers ! ” 

Why not — Mr. Fullarton ? ” 

‘^Because I’ve got something in here that 
I want you to see. You remember our lit- 
tle discussion about lawn - tennis rackets ? 
You said they were still made curved, and I 
said they weren’t. Well, on the lower side 
of this portmanteau — at the very bottom — 
underneath my shirts — there is, or ought to 
be, a racket of this year. We’ll see if there 
is, Miss Villiers; and we’ll see which of us 
is right.” 

He had spoken with smiling eyes upon 
the girl ; and his smile broadened as he 
specified, with more and more exactitude, 
the precise position of the racket. It was 
the address of a conjurer before his greatest 
trick ; yet Irralie alone understood. As he 
finished speaking, he raised the knife and 
stabbed with sudden energy at the leather 
above the lock. Indeed the point of the 
blade caught the plate of brass, and the 
blade itself closed upon his hand amid the 
exclamations of the onlookers. 


AN ACCIDENT 53 

“You’ll ruin it!” cried one or two, 
meaning the portmanteau. 

“ He’s cut himself,” said another. 

But Fullarton doubled his fist before the 
blood had time to flow. “ It’s nothing ! ” 
he muttered, and, with his left hand, cut the 
straps, sawed round the lock, and had the 
portmanteau open in an instant. In an- 
other, the shirts were displayed and disar- 
ranged, and the lawn-tennis racket duly pro- 
duced. 

“ As straight as my face, I think ! ” said 
Fullarton, as he held it out to Irralie. She 
hardly looked at it. But, from her place 
among the others, she did look at Fullarton 
— humbly, steadfastly — with an expression 
which he alone could read. To the rest 
there had merely been a friendly argument, 
and Irralie was merely in the wrong. Yet 
to the more observant there was an un- 
precedented absence of humor, and of 
spirit in Irralie’ s acknowledgment of the 
fact. 

“You are right,” she said, as if it were 


54 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


quite a tragic matter. “ You are right, and 
I was a perfect fool ! Forgive me if you 
ever can. ’ ’ 

‘‘On one condition. The racket is yours. 
I have more than I can use. ’ ’ 

She then took it from him, but no thanks 
would come. A “ perfect fool ” indeed, the 
depth of her folly — the knowledge that he 
had plumbed it — and the good - humored 
tact of his reproof, all struck home together 
and choked her with simple shame. She 
made one effort ; another, and she would 
have broken down ; but she was saved, and 
strangely, at that moment. 

“Mr. Fullarton ! ” she heard her father 
cry. “ Your hand ! your hand ! ” 

Fullarton looked ; the blood was welling 
through his clenched fingers. He turned 
his back and examined the cut. 

‘ ‘ Deeper than I thought ! ” he muttered 
to the manager. “ Have you any gut in 
the medicine-chest ? That’s an artery pump- 
ing. Gut and tweezers and a basin of water 
in the dining-room ! ” 


AN ACCIDENT 


55 


And in the dining-room he sat with his bare 
arm over a basin of reddening water, and, 
using the tweezers with his own left hand, 
picked up the arteries himself and called for 
somebody to tie them with the gut. The 
manager tried, but his fingers were all hard 
thumbs ; he was only good for standing by 
with the whiskey, which was needed but re- 
fused. Mrs. Villiers was too nervous ; and 
it was Irralie herself who finally tied the ar- 
teries with her firm, nimble fingers, and who 
helped to bind up the hand. The young 
men and the boys looked on ; and, when all 
was over, there was but one heart left for 
the wounded man to win, who reeled when 
he rose, and had to be supported to his 
room. The boys gave him a rousing cheer, 
led by their frenzied tutor; and it was 
none other than Jevons who cried, “ One 
more ! ” 

But Irralie shut herself in her room, 
clasped her hands stained with his blood, and 
went in thankfulness upon her knees. Her 
doubts were at an end ; yet, in the first ec- 


56 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


stasy of secret and spiritual deliverance, they 
seemed less preposterous than at any previ- 
ous stage. The horror had been too strong 
for her to cease to take it seriously the mo- 
ment it was removed. 


CHAPTER VI 


TWO VOICES 

The Fourth Commandment was not to- 
tally broken at Arran Downs ; it was merely 
observed in a modified form. The family 
remembered the Sabbath-night, if not the 
day, and kept it holy in a rather winning 
way of their own. The piano was wheeled 
into the broad veranda, forms were put 
across, and lanterns hung. Then the station 
bell would ring for five minutes, and the 
men would troop over from the hut, slipping 
hot pipes into their pockets as they entered 
the veranda. Mr. Villiers would be dis- 
covered sitting at a small table with the 
books. The men, too, remained seated 
during the entire service. 

This was never long. A few prayers were 
read, then a chapter, then something pithy 
from a book. It was not always a sermon 


58 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


so-called. But there were always hymns, 
and Irralie was never absent from the piano. 
She was certainly not a good performer ; 
but she could play a hymn, and lead it, too, 
with a voice not free from possibilities. She 
was also a great favorite with the men. 

On the night of the knife accident, how- 
ever, the men’s hut sent a contingent without 
numerical precedent. And the attraction, 
of course, was the new chum -owner with 
the blooming handle to his blooming name. 
Such of the men, indeed, as had already 
seen him, described the hut as the proper 
blooming place for ’im — if you jokers could 
suffer the cove.” Others, who had yet to 
behold him at short range, and who came to 
service for that purpose alone, were punished 
by a complete take-in. 

‘^That the cove?” said one. ‘‘Why, 
’e’s a bloomin’ toff like all the rest o’ them 
new chummies. Wot were yer givin’ us? ” 

“ Bio wed if he hasn’t been and dressed 
himself up ! Hardly knew him myself ; 
looks a fine chap now, eh, don’t ’e ? ” 


TWO VOICES 59 

Plucky fine ! Wot’s ’e done with ’is 
’and ? ” 

And so forth — under cover of the first 
hymn. For Fullarton had been helped into 
a well-cut suit of light gray flannel. He 
now wore also an impeccable colored shirt, 
a white collar, and a good tie badly tied by 
Hodding, the tutor, who had also essayed 
an easy shave, and achieved an easier than 
Fullarton anticipated. The net result was a 
change astonishing enough, if essentially su- 
perficial. To be sure, too, a sleeve hung 
loose, which prevented the coat from fitting 
as a coat should. Still, the garments were 
by the most celebrated of all firms, as Hod- 
ding told Jevons (who had never heard of 
that firm)- with bated breath. And, without 
a doubt, pale as he was from loss of blood, 
the handsome, headlong scapegrace looked 
no longer a son of whom the noblest Earl 
need have felt very sorely ashamed. 

So thought Irralie on the piano-stool be- 
fore her duties obliged her to turn her back. 
This occurred at the first hymn, of which the 


6o 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


very first verse had an instantaneously de- 
pressing effect upon the girl. Not that it 
was a hymn she disliked ; it was “ Onward, 
Christian Soldiers,” which she loved and 
had chosen. But here was a new, hoarse 
voice braying out of tune in her ear, and she 
was only too well aware whose voice it was. 
Anything more painful, anything so raucous, 
ear - splitting, and grotesque, Irralie had 
never heard. It stabbed her nerves like the 
squeak of a slate-pencil. It was no more 
certain of a note than a drunken man of his 
steps. And it came from lips which Irralie 
had so recently suspected of falsehood and 
deceit, that, but for the incident of the ten- 
nis-racket, her new-born faith had been once 
more shaken to its base. 

As it was she found herself disillusioned 
and disappointed in the hour of relief. And 
the most mortifying moment of all was 
when, in the second hymn, the infliction 
suddenly ceased, and the honest, painstak- 
ing, sure - footed bass of George Young 
(which it had drowned) was heard for the 


TWO VOICES 


6i 

first time coming down like a steam-hammer 
on every note. 

Irralie was provoked beyond rhyVne or 
reason. She had made up her mind to think 
so very well now of the man of whom — on 
grounds disgracefully slight — she had 
thought so very, very badly. And it was a 
fair mind, anxious to do justice always, and 
to make prompt amends where it failed; 
but here was this miserable little fly of a 
voice in the ointment of her new content. 

Yet it might have been worse ; earlier in 
the day, at least, she would have thought 
more of it. For if there was such a thing as 
a typical bush-ranging bellow, Irralie would 
then have made certain that she had heard 
it to-night. As it was, however, when the 
second hymn had been sung without further 
atrocities, the girl turned round on her mu- 
sic-stool and revived her spirits by side-long 
glances at the empty, well-cut sleeve. 

I must apologize for making that row,” 
he said to her, under cover of the men’s 
stampede. I’m sorry I sang.” 


62 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


“ Why ? ” asked Irralie, coloring. 

I saw your shoulders up to your ears. I 
seemed to hear your teeth on edge ! And 
suddenly I remembered what they all used to 
say at home. My father’s a clergyman, you 
know ; he used to like us all to join in ; but 
my brothers and sisters petitioned him to 
forbid me to ! ” 

It was really quite unconscious on my 
part,” said Irralie. I — I never heard any- 
thing.” 

The other laughed. 

‘‘Your friend Young sings well,” said 
he. 

“Too well!” said Irralie, who felt 
vaguely annoyed at having poor George 
styled her friend — by Fullarton. Nor did 
she like the singer any better for being one 
just then. But Fullarton only laughed. 

“ Too well. Miss Villiers ! ” 

“ There’s no interest in being so good and 
doing things perfectly.” 

“He is a very good fellow, then, this 
George Young ? I thought he looked it.” 


TWO VOICES 


63 


“Offensively good!” said Irralie, and 
changed the subject with characteristic 
abruptness. 

In fact, she had remembered Fullarton’s 
wound, and the memory expressed itself in 
that solicitude for him which was to be her 
outward way of atoning for the folly that was 
still heinous in her eyes. She had wronged 
him before, she must make up for it now. 
So seriously she continued to put it to her- 
self ; and yet her friends did not know her 
as a serious person, but rather for a hearty, 
hard-riding, impudent, charming, indepen- 
dent child of the bush. 

Was she changing ? Had she already 
changed? Deliberate introspection would 
have come amiss to her the week, nay, the 
very day before; hitherto she had coupled 
it with insomnia (to which hers had been 
always due) as an occasional disorder at the 
worst. Now — as it were in a moment — it 
was her perpetual pitfall — a besetting sin. 
This very reflection she made alone in the 
moonlight later in the evening. And why 


64 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

alone ? To think about herself — for no 
other reason, unless it was to think 

An unreasoning anger filled the heart of 
the girl. She looked about for one on 
whom to vent it, and was given George 
Young, who at that moment stepped down 
from the veranda and was proceeding with 
bent head toward the young men’s rooms. 
His very carriage was an offence; but his 
excellent singing that night had been a 
greater. Irralie determined to be even with 
him on the spot. He was the only one 
who had never said a word about the 
wounded hand. That was another thing ; 
she would ask him what it all meant. And 
yet — she might have known. George 
Young was a friend of some few years’ stand- 
ing. He could remember her short dresses 
and her black pigtail. But Greville Ful- 
larton was the acquaintance of a single 
day. 

George ! ” cried Irralie, authoritatively. 

Who has frightened you?” she scorn- 
fully added, as he came up staring. 


TWO VOICES 


65 


‘‘You astonished me.” 

“How?” 

“ By calling me like that.” 

“Oh, so I haven’t known you long 
enough to call you George, eh? Certainly 
we live and learn ! ’ ’ 

“You know I didn’t mean that, Irralie.” 

She did know, and she relented. “ Then 
what’s the matter with you ? What have I 
done — or anybody else — that you should 
look as you have looked all the evening, 
and — and not behave like other people? 
Who’s offended you ? That’s what I want 
to know ! ’ ’ 

Nobody. He was not offended at all. 
That was all he would say. Yet he said it 
with such a tragic tremor, and was at one 
and the same time so dignified and manly 
and pig-headed, that Irralie could not leave 
ill alone, but must needs answer for him. 

“I know who!” she whispered, and 
pointed across the yard to the front veran- 
da. It showed a firmament of tiny red 
stars. The new owner had got at his 
S 


66 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


cigars; and Young alone had professed to 
prefer his own pipe. 

Young made no answer now. 

‘^You hate him! ” pursued Irralie, in a 
low, excited voice. Why should you ? 
How do you dare ? ’ * 

Dare 1 ” said the other softly. 

No retort could have stung Irralie more. 

‘‘Then presume,” she said. “Yes, pre- 
sume is the better word for you. You do 
presume when you take a scunner against a 
man you know nothing about I ’ ’ 

“A man I know nothing about ! That’s 
it — exactly.” 

He turned, and walked toward the pines. 
She followed him until their ordinary voices 
were out of earshot of the veranda. At 
the wire fence they stopped, and Irralie 
turned upon him with subdued fury. 

“ At all events you know who he is! ” 

“ Who is he ? ” 

“You know as well as I do that he’s the 
son of an Earl — Lord Fullarton ! ” 

For one moment she thought his smile a 


TWO VOICES 


67 


sneer at her glibness with the titles; the 
next, she divined a yet more sinister mean- 
ing, and it held her speechless. Her sus- 
picions of last night were his of this ! It 
was incredible, monstrous, absurd ; and yet 
the case. His silence was significant — and 
the more shame for him ! It had been bad 
enough in her when there were the rough 
clothes to excite a prejudice, and no luggage 
to allay it. But in George Young — now — 
after all that had happened under his eyes 
— it was mere malicious idiocy. Irralie 
laughed in his face. 

So you think that ! ” 

What?” 

That he’s not what he says he is ! ” 
Young looked at her firmly with his ob- 
stinate, set face. 

<«Yes — I think that. Stop a moment, 
Irralie ! You have forced me to speak, and 
now there’s one question — no, two — that 
I’ve got for you. Have you ever seen the 
signature of Greville Fullarton? ” 

Never.” 


68 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


Then I have. There’s his note to your 
father still lying about the store. Have you 
ever seen the signature of the man who 
turned up last night ? ’ ’ 

“ No, I haven’t.” 

Nor will you ever! ” said Young, em- 
phatically. 

‘ ^ Why not ? What are you driving at ? ” 
‘‘ He has injured his right hand ! ” 

His meaning was slow to dawn upon her ; 
yet some vague sense of it was already 
troubling her heart. 

“Well?” she said. “What then? It 
was a most unfortunate accident.” 

“I don’t agree with you. On the con- 
trary, if you ask me, I should call it a very 
happy accident indeed ! There are more 
documents in the air than those he professes 
to have lost. Some had come up by the mail. 
And your father had asked him to sign them ! ’ ’ 
There was a pause. 

“ I see : so you don’t think it was an ac- 
cident at all,” said Irralie, with the stinging 
contempt of sudden and complete self-control. 


TWO VOICES 


69 


“ No, I do not.” 

And he faced her doggedly as with inso- 
lent scorn she turned lightly from him, re- 
treated a few steps, and turned again. 

‘‘And pray how do you account for the 
racket in the portmanteau ? You were there, 
I think? You know what I mean? ” 

“Yes, I was there. The explanation of 
that is fairly simple, too.” 

“Give it me ! ” she cried, stamping her 
foot. 

“No, I shall not,” he replied quietly. 
“ I shall do nothing of the kind.” 

“For obvious reasons!” sneered the 
girl; “for reasons that are so worthy of 
you ! Ingenious is not the word for your 
theory — nor for you — nor for every single 
thing you’ve said to-night! I leave the 
word to your imagination. But it only 
needed this to complete my opinion — of 
you! ” 

And so she left him — with a sudden catch 
at her skirt, as though the very sand he 
stood in were malignant ground. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SKELETON AT THE DANCE 

The affair of the following evening was 
evidently far from proving the formidable 
rite which Fullarton had appeared to dread. 
He took a mild interest in the preparations, 
and made a favorable impression upon the 
guests. Active help he certainly could not 
give; but Irralie felt that he would have 
been of but little use in any case ; and sadly 
admitted to herself (though not to another 
soul) that her friend was not and could 
never have been a dancing man. She felt 
it only less than his dreadful singing. But 
there were no more absurd suspicions. He 
was with her all the day ; and if he had not 
a single suggestion for the floor, or for the 
arrangement of chairs and lights, he had 
plenty to tell Irralie about Harrow, Oxford, 
and California. He had been superan- 


THE SKELETON AT THE DANCE 71 


nuated from the first, sent down from the 
second, and had bade the last farewell in a 
red shirt and no boots. Luckily the over- 
seer was out of the way. He was superin- 
tending the pitching of the tents. Irralie 
and he had not spoken again. 

As for the guests, they arrived between 
noon and sundown in some dozen buggies, 
which for lack of stable-room were arranged 
in a sort of laager near the tents. The 
Brownes of Quandong drove over four-in- 
hand; and there were seft^eral young men 
who rode with their dress-clothes in valises 
at the saddle-bow. Finally, some forty 
persons sat down to an early dinner in the 
back veranda, and thereafter retired to their 
rooms and tents to dress. 

They reappeared upon a delightful scene. 
The southern day had ended with its usual 
abruptness ; the rising moon had already 
cleared the pines. The main building wore 
a necklace of Chinese lanterns ^hung by Ir- 
ralie between the veranda posts, and the 
symmetry of this was well relieved by the 


72 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


purely random lighting of the yard. The 
gross effect, however, would have been bet- 
ter, undoubtedly, without a moon ; as it 
was, by ten o’clock the night was lighter 
than many a northern day. 

About this hour two things happened. 
The new owner, then making himself most 
attentive to Mrs. Browne of Quandong 
(whose diamonds were worthy of Park 
Lane), felt a tug at his armless sleeve. He 
turned his head, and there was Irralie. 
The girl was dressed in white, trimmed (by 
her own hands) with rowan -berries ; there 
were more berries in her hair ; and earlier 
in the evening, at all events, health and 
youth and radiant high spirits had made 
her beautiful in many eyes. She was now, 
however, very visibly overheated, for she had 
been dancing everything with the utmost 
abandon; and she was also, in the judgment 
of Mrs. Browne of Quandong (who had 
spent a recent year in England), decidedly 
‘‘bad form.” 

“Well, Miss Villiers ” 


THE SKELETON AT THE DANCE 73 

The new owner was cut short as he rose 
to give her his chair. 

‘‘Don’t Miss Villiers me! I’m far too 
hot to be reminded I’m all that — or to sit 
down, thanks all the same. I came to say 
the next two are ours.” 

“ Ours?” 

“Yes; and you don’t need to look like 
that, or you’ll make Mrs. Browne more 
ashamed of me than she is already. Oh, I 
know you didn’t ask me — I can’t help 
that ! I’m simply too hot to dance another 
step till I’ve had a good long rest in the cool. 
And, as I can’t possibly ask the able-bodied 
to give up their pleasure for me, I appeal to 
you. Come and get me something to drink, 
and bring Mrs. Browne as well ! ’ ’ 

The face of the lady of Quandong was a 
study of the first order. It is true that the 
girl was unfashionably excited, and very 
likely her speech was all it appeared to Mrs. 
Browne, who, however, did not know how 
much of it had been made for her bene- 
fit. Nor could she doubt but that her late 


74 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


aristocratic companion was as deeply dis- 
gusted as herself; nor help pitying him as 
the young minx carried him off. And this 
was one thing that happened about ten of 
the clock. 

The other was less public; indeed, the 
horse was not seen till much later, and such 
as saw the Skeleton among the pines took 
him probably for an on-looker from the hut. 
Yet none can have seen him very well, or 
his dress would have excited immediate re- 
mark. He wore riding-breeches beautifully 
cut, and gaiters of the newest. His eye 
was garnished with a single glass, and in his 
hand he carried an English hunting-crop. 
He found his way through the pines with 
vigilant, unfamiliar steps, and he surveyed 
the Chinese lanterns and the flitting faces 
from the shelter of a well-grown hop-bush. 
Some were dancing on the veranda itself. 
The stranger watched them with the half- 
frown and half-smile of a man who appeared 
to find the novelty of the sight its most strik- 
ing feature. 


THE SKELETON AT THE DANCE 75 

Meantime, Irralie under the moon with 
the new owner was a very different person 
from Irralie in the ball - room with Mrs. 
Browne of Quandong. She was much 
quieter, and, it is possible, a little less like 
herself. That unspeakable mistake of hers 
still rankled in her bosom whenever she 
found herself in Fullarton’s company. She 
had tried to make amends to him since the 
accident; but she was not at all sure that 
she had succeeded ; and gradually the wish 
had grown upon her to speak to him can- 
didly about the whole matter. Rightly or 
wrongly, her soul was still burdened, and 
she wished to unburden it ; a few words — 
the fewest possible — and she would breathe 
more freely in his presence. There are 
natures that must cry peccavt after every 
realized offence ; and Irralie’ s was one. 

So at last she said, Mr. Fullarton, I have 
something on my mind, and you know what 
it is as well as I do. I am ashamed of my- 
self! ” For it was characteristic of Irralie 
that, however long she might be in making 


76 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


up her mind to say or do a thing, the speech 
or the action itself was invariably crisp and 
to the point. 

The other halted in his stride. 

^‘Ashamed?” said he. ‘‘What in the 
world about ? ’ ’ 

“You know,” said Irralie. 

“I! Let me think.” 

“Think back to yesterday.” 

“Yes?” 

“To yesterday afternoon.” 

“ Good. What then? ” 

“ Oh, you don’t help me a bit ! ” cried 
the girl. “ I made a fool of myself. I 
thought all sorts of idiotic things ! I hadn’t 
even the decency to conceal my thoughts 
from you ; you saw them — and behaved 
handsomely ! Yes, you did ; you might 
have given me away before them all ; but 
not you ! And I am grateful — more grate- 
ful and ashamed than I can ever say. I 
want to thank you and to apologize with the 
same stone. ’ ’ 

“This is very serious,” said Fullarton, 


THE SKELETON AT THE DANCE 77 

smiling. Of course, if you say it was as 
bad as all that, I must take your word for ifc. 
But — who on earth did you imagine I was? ” 

Stingaree ! ” 

I thought so ! It occurred to me when “ 
you showed me that grave in the pines.” 

Oh, I was an idiot. It makes me feel 
hot whenever I think of it ; and yet I’m the 
better for telling you the worst. It was the 
old clothes and the revolver and all that. 
Can you possibly understand ? ’ ’ 

^‘Easily,” said Fullarton, reassuringly. 

There’s only one thing I can’t fathom.” 

What’s that ? ” 

Why on earth you didn’t promptly tell 
your people ! ’ ’ 

There was a pause. They had entered 
the plantation, but at its southerly extrem- 
ity ; the stock-yards and out-buildings lying 
to the north. Very faintly in the distance, 
they could catch the high notes of the fiddler 
from Hay, with an occasional chord from 
the piano. But this was only while Irralie 
paused. 


78 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


I was too ashamed,” she said at length. 
Besides, I didn’t believe it myself — I only 
couldn’t help thinking 

‘‘You might have told them what you 
couldn’t help thinking; or at least let them 
know that I was armed.” 

“ I might, certainly.” 

“ Why didn’t you. Miss Villiers? ” 

They were now approaching the southerly 
edge of the homestead clearing. The illu- 
minations shone in their eyes through the 
thinning trees. The music had ceased ; it 
was not missed, however, in the pines ; and 
thus the rather singular lack of open-air 
promenaders went also unremarked. Fullar- 
ton repeated his question. 

“I can’t explain it,” replied Irralie. 
“You were one against many; that may 
have been it. And then, you never looked 
the villain ! ’ ’ 

“Suppose I had!” he said, eagerly. 
“ Suppose you had known me for Stingaree 
himself ; what then ? ’ ’ 

Irralie made no reply. They had struck 


THE SKELETON AT THE DANCE 79 


the fence and found a horse there, tethered. 
The girl was puzzled. 

‘‘ I wonder who has come? ” said she. 

Don’t wonder ! Answer my question — 
please, Miss Villiers ! ” 

Say it again.” 

If I had been the brute you thought me, 
would you — have stood by me even so ? ” 

No, indeed ! I should think not. How 
can you ask ? ’ ’ 

** I only wanted to know.” 

They squeezed through the wires, and had 
the yard to themselves. And here Irralie 
was still further mystified. The ball-room 
windows stood open to the floor ; nobody 
was dancing, and yet the room was full. 
The music had ceased, but the sound of a 
high, drawling voice floated out into the 
yard. 

Who’s that talking?” said Irralie. 
It’s a voice I don’t know at all ! ” 

She looked at her companion ; and his ex- 
pression was still puzzling her, when a sud- 
den uproar burst upon them from the open 


8o 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


windows. Men were tumbling pell - mell 
through them, shouting like lunatics, and 
armed with native weapons snatched from 
the walls. 

Stingaree ! ” they roared. ^VThere 
he is ! Run, Miss Villiers ; that’s Stinga- 
ree ! ” 

Irralie never forgot the wild voices or the 
wilder scene. As one man they had dashed 
at her companion. He turned and ran for 
the tethered horse. The reins were whipped 
from the fence before he could mount ; but 
he was first through the wires, when, instead 
of running on, he wheeled round to reason 
or remonstrate with his pursuers. Irralie 
saw his gestures without hearing a word ; 
but when they cut him short with a roar 
and a dash, and struck at his head with their 
spears and boomerangs, she saw the hand be- 
come a fist, and the fist planted in the mid- 
dle of the first shirt - front to breast the 
wires. Next moment they were scaled by 
all, and the many fell headlong upon the 


one. 


THE SKELETON AT THE DANCE 8i 


Again and again he shook and hit and 
hacked them off ; he fought like a wounded 
tiger ; and now he tugged out his injured 
hand, and began fighting with that. It 
looked ghastly in the moonlight — big as 
a boxing - glove with lint and bandages, 
and white at first, but quickly reddening 
from within as it struck and struck and 
struck among the crumpled shirts and 
loose white ties. Every blow left a smear. 
But the end came suddenly; the gallant 
wretch was grasped from behind in deadly 
grips; a heavy, livid face writhed beside 
his own, and George Young bore him to 
the ground. 

Irralie turned away her head. The ve- 
randa was all red lanterns and white faces 
and torn trains. But among them was a new 
face, with drooping whiskers and a single 
eye-glass ; and as Irralie looked a dapper 
Englishman, in gaiters, riding-breeches, and 
twinkling spurs, stepped down from the ve- 
randa, and strutted over to the fence with 

his hands in his pockets. 

6 


82 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


“ Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! ” she heard his 
high voice drawl. “ No undue violence, 
gentlemen, I beg ! ’ ’ 

And he headed the procession which 
marched through the yard a few moments 
later, and in the midst of which, with a face 
all blood, pallor, and cynical resignation, 
walked the man who for forty-eight hours 
had passed unchallenged as the owner of 
Arran Downs. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE HOUR AFTER 

They clapped him in the iron-store. And 
when Irralie had seen the last of him in 
their hands, she started as one wakes from 
a dream, and fled before the return-wave of 
triumphant captors. For the next half-hour 
she was missing and yet not missed. Then 
she was wanted for a purpose, and Mrs. Vil- 
liers, trying her door, found it locked. 

Irralie ! Irralie ! Let me in ! ” 

Heavy steps crossed the floor; the key 
grated ; the leaden steps retreated. Mrs. 
Villiers turned the handle and entered the 
room. The girl had thrown herself back 
upon the bed. 

‘‘ My dear child ! What next? I won- 
dered where you -were. We are going to 
have supper. ’ ’ 

Supper ! After that ? ’ ’ 


84 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


^‘Why not? We are beginning to feel 
ourselves again — thanks to Mr. Fullarton — 
and if we can’t dance we must at all events 
eat. Nobody is going home. The Brownes 
talked of it, but Mr. Fullarton dissuaded 
them. He has such tact ! I don’t know 
what we should have done without him. 
He has quite won 7ny heart; and such a 
handsome fellow! Irralie, he says he hasn’t 
seen you yet ; that was indeed what sent me 
to look for you. Come now, and be intro- 
duced before supper ! ” 

No ! ” cried the girl. ‘‘I have had 
Mr, Fullartons enough.” 

But you will come to supper ? ” 

Not if you will let me off ; and I do so 
want to be left alone, mother ! If the rest 
of you can forget such a thing, I cannot. I 
was with him at the time. You were all 
prepared for it ; it took me by surprise. ’ ’ 
Mrs. Villiers had not thought of that. 
She was a good, ordinary soul, whose affec- 
tions were superior to her insight ; but she 
did feel with Irralie now. 


THE HOUR AFTER 


85 


“ My poor child ! Yes, you were with 
him at the time. If only I had dreamt I 
But you were always with him,” added the 
mother in sudden alarm. It cannot be 
possible — Irralie — that you ever liked him ? ’ ’ 

“I did — most certainly,” said Irralie, 
stoutly. Her forehead was hot to the hand 
which smoothed her hair back tenderly. 

“ You cannot like him now ! ” 

“Now? I hate him! ” cried the girl. 
“ I hate him 1 If you knew how he lied — 
to me ! Nothing could be too bad for him, 
mother. Did they ” 

She checked herself. 

“Yes, Irralie ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing. I was only wondering 
whether they did up his hand again.” 

“Yes, at once. Mr. Fullarton saw to it 
himself.” 

‘ ‘ And is he — behaving himself — in the 
iron-store ? ’ ’ 

“ He has never made a sound.” 

“ Nor owned up to anything, I sup- 
pose ? ’ ’ 


86 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


‘‘ Yes ! *He has confessed everything — to 
Mr. Fullarton while they were binding up 
his hand. How he first heard of him, and 
worked the whole plan up — actually sending 
him a telegram in our name putting him off 
for a week ! It was a lucky thing that Mr. 
Fullarton heard down the road that we were 
expecting him — heard also of the sticking- 
up of that public-house on Saturday — had 
his suspicions, and determined to come on. 
Had he not done so we should all have been 
robbed and most likely murdered in our 
beds ! Think of it : a crape mask has been 
found in the pocket of the dreadful coat he 
came in, and a pistol in his room ! It is 
easy to be wise after the event, but how we 
ever came to be taken in by such a ruffian 
passes my comprehension ; and so it will 
yours when you see and speak to the real 
man. Such a charming fellow ! A little 
supercilious, I heard someone say; but, 
mind you, I don’t think so. I thought it 
quite right of him to criticise the floor ! ” 
Irralie lay motionless with closed eyes and 


THE HOUR AFTER 


87 


inattentive brain. Through the thin walls 
came the buzz of voices, excited still, but 
only pleasantly so ; for was not the despe- 
rado safely secured without having done 
anything very desperate after all ? And for 
everybody else was it not an adventure to 
boast of for the term of one’s natural life ? 
This was the impression derived by Irralie, 
rightly or wrongly, from her mother’s man- 
ner and the voices through the walls. The 
little incident was over. It was nothing 
more. They could now sit down to supper 
— quite possibly with an added zest ; but 
the girl again begged to be excused from 
joining them. 

Dear mother, yes, I know I am your 
daughter and the daughter of the house. 
But I can’t help it. You must let me off. 
It will be understood. I was with him at 
the time. You all were behind the scenes. 
Tell them that, and they will understand.” 

** 1 see that it has shaken you,” said Mrs. 
Villiers, still smoothing the hair from the 
hot, troubled brow. ‘‘ And no wonder. 


88 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


dear Irralie ; yet what can you do in here ? 
We shall be just outside the door.” 

I will slip round to the nursery, and 
from there to the school-room,” said Irralie, 
rising. Then after you have gone, I shall 
come straight to bed. Mother, you are 
good to me ! You understand ! I was 
with him. What will people think ? It 
makes me ache with shame. But you are 
good ! ” 

She flung her arms about her mother’s 
neck, and kissed her fondly, but without 
a tear. Then she was gone. And Mrs. 
Villiers returned in trouble to the crowded 
room. 

A sudden hush preceded her entry, with 
which, however, it had nothing to do ; the 
Englishman had seated himself on the music- 
stool vacated by the hireling from Hay, and 
was running his ringed fingers over the keys. 
A corrugated forehead was the result, fol- 
lowed, however, a moment after, by a per- 
formance which, while it lasted, held the 
listeners spellbound. The style was that 


THE HOUR AFTER 


89 


of a master ; the only fault lay in the exe- 
cution, which was imperfect but yet full of 
brilliance. Every ear was charmed, and 
all eyes fascinated by the magic mastery 
of the white keys by the small, sunburnt 
hands, scintillating with rings. Yet the 
whole affair lasted but a minute, and was 
rudely broken off in the middle of a bar. 

‘‘ I really can’t stand it any longer,” 
drawled the musician, rising. 

“ Stand what? ” asked Mr. Villi ers, who 
thought somebody must have been talking, 
and was prepared to reprimand the offender. 

“Your piano,” replied the other. “ My 
dear sir, it’s painful ! ” 

The manager, like many of his friends, 
was duly taken aback ; but Mrs. Villiers (a 
woman who venerated rudeness in a man) 
instantly advanced from the threshold to fill 
the breach. 

“ I quite agree with Mr. Fullarton,” said 
she. “ It is a terrible instrument ; but that 
was a very beautiful piece ; may I ask what 
it was ? ’ ’ 


90 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


“ That? A little thing by a man called 
Chopin. A polonaise — if you’re any 
wiser. ’ ’ 

Oh, indeed. How I wish we had a 
better piano ! ” 

Ah ! I shall have my Erard sent out 
by the next mail.” 

And the matter dropped; but another, 
which made a very similar impression, oc- 
curred at supper, on the production of cham- 
pagne. 

‘ ^ Champagne up here ! ’ ’ cried the Eng- 
lishman, for once surprised out of his drawl. 

Good heavens ! ” 

“ We got it up specially from Hay,” ex- 
plained the manager, reddening. 

‘‘Hay!” 

And the new-comer steadily refused to 
drink even his own health in anything more 
perilous than very weak whiskey-and-water ; 
and once more his hostess backed him up. 

“Fool of a woman,” muttered an old 
overseer under his breath. “I’d like to give 
him five minutes with my stock-whip 1 ” 


THE HOUR AFTER 


91 


I agree,” whispered the young man 
next him (who had a red smudge on his 
collar). “ The joker we landed would have 
had better manners ! It makes you sorry. 
If the great Irralie were here there’ d be some 
fun ! I wonder where she is ? ” 

The great Irralie was at that moment in 
the school-room, in the open doorway, look- 
ing out upon the pines. 

The moon shone full in her eyes, but dis- 
covered neither tears nor the signs of tears, 
nor aught but indignation and bitter regret. 
She had suspected everything from the first. 
And because of her suspicions she had torn 
her soul — for a hardened villain ; and be- 
cause of her suspicions she had humbled her- 
self to a notorious scoundrel, who had lied 
to her to the very end. That was what 
rankled most. He had not trusted her ! 
Yet she did not think it was that at all. 

There were two doors to the school-room. 
The one at which Irralie stood, led without 
porch or passage into the open air, and from 


92 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


it she could see no other building. But an 
inner door opened into a tiny lobby, which 
let one in or out through a shallow veranda 
abutting the yard. From this veranda one 
had all the homestead buildings under one’s 
eye : the kitchen opposite, the long main 
building to the left, and to the right the 
blacksmith’s forge and the iron-store. The 
two last were twin structures entirely com- 
posed of sheets of corrugated iron either 
nailed to uprights or clamped together with 
bolts and nuts. The store was the nearer to 
the school-room block, and in front of it, 
with a pipe in his mouth and a repeating- 
rifle under his arm, stood George Young on 
guard in the moonlight. 

Irralie watched him from the shallow ve- 
randa, for which she presently forsook her 
school - room door. The veranda was in 
deep shadow, and she stood unobserved 
within ten paces of Young. His head was 
bent and his shoulders rounded. He looked 
a man dejected rather than alert, and the 
girl wondered whether he was thinking of 


THE HOUR AFTER 


93 


the previous night, and of her hard words to 
him then. To think of them herself meant 
instantaneous action on the part of Irralie. 
She had not to think twice, but stepped 
forward there and then, with her right arm 
held out in front of her. 

Shake hands — if you will,” she said. 
“ I don’t deserve it. But try ! ” 

It was done without a word, and the pipe 
was put away. 

‘‘ I am honestly sorry for every word 
I said,” continued Irralie, warmly. “I 
thought you foolishly and wickedly suspi- 
cious, but now we see who was the wicked 
fool ! Heaven knows I had my own doubts 
in the beginning. But I let him see it ; he 
set to work to remove them, and succeeded 
— you may know how. It was a clever 
trick, though ; I will say that.” And Irra- 
lie sighed. 

‘‘ You mean about the tennis-racket? ” 
Yes. You said it was simple? ” 

It was the simplest dodge of all, Irralie ! 
Fullarton stopped in Melbourne to play in a 


94 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

tournament. It was in all the papers. He 
was bound to have a racket with him, and 
that trunk was the only one long enough.” 

Irralie said nothing ; it was as though, in 
the face of even his self-confessed guilt, she 
had yet retained a sneaking regard for the 
one positive point made by the villain in his 
own favor. She looked at the prison-door. 
It was corrugated iron like the walls and 
roof, and heavily padlocked on the outside. 
They were standing a few yards from it, and 
talking in undertones. A change of subject 
was obtained by a request for George 
Young’s opinion of “ the real man.” 

Given with alacrity, this was golden in- 
deed ; in fact, in her mother and the over- 
seer Irralie had encountered the only two 
persons with whom the ill-mannered Eng- 
lishman had made himself a favorite, 
though all admired him. And even the en- 
thusiasm of George Young was tempered 
with one or two admissions. 

He is a masterful man, and a fine gen- 
eral, but certainly a cool hand. For in- 


THE HOUR AFTER 


95 


stance, about the men’s hut. Haven’t you 
heard? There’s not a man up there that 
has any idea what’s happened. We gave 
them a supper, you know, and they were at 
it when this thing occurred. Mr. Fullarton 
had orders given which have resulted in their 
not getting wind of it yet.” 

‘‘Orders!” said Irralie, with her black 
eyebrows arched. “ Yes, that was cool. 
And what was the object ? ’ ’ 

“ To avoid any display of sympathy with 
Stingaree. There’s something in it, too. 
We have some rough customers up at the 
hut just now ; and it’s not at all an uncom- 
mon thing to find an ordinary pound-a- 
week hand ready on principle to back a 
bushranger for all he’s worth. At least, it 
wasn’t in the Kelly country ; and I hear 
Stingaree is just as much of a hero in their 
eyes as ever Ned Kelly was.” 

“ Has anybody gone for the police? ” 

“ No ; we said we’d leave it till morning, 
since he’s absolutely safe where he is. The 
fact is, however, that we don’t want people 


96 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


to sit up for 'it and make a scene. They’re 
all going to turn in after supper, with the 
exception of a very few of us, who will 
keep watch and watch about.” 

“By order of the new owner again?” 
asked Irralie, with the least possible sneer, 

“ Well, at his suggestion.” 

“ He seems to have taken command of 
the place ! ” 

“ In a way he has ; but it’s a way I don’t 
object to myself. You want a strong man 
to say what should and should not be done 
in a case like this. There would certainly 
have been a panic and a general clearance 
if it hadn’t been for Mr. Fullarton. You 
should have heard Mrs. Browne going on 
about her diamonds ! So all the ladies are 
going to hand over their valuables to be put 
in the safe, and one of us will keep the key. 
And you mustn’t think ill of Fullarton, Irra- 
lie. I own he’s a cool hand, and bosses us 
all about perhaps a bit too much ; but your 
father himself said he was thankful he had 
turned up in time to relieve him of the 


THE HOUR AFTER 


97 

greatest responsibility that has ever come 
his way.” 

‘‘That may be so,” began Irralie, as if 
she were about to say a good deal more. 
But she thought of the night before, and of 
her great mistake ; and she held her peace. 

‘ ‘ Aren’t you going to supper at all ? ” 
asked Young, suddenly, 

“No. I couldn’t! I’ve been too much 
mixed up in this, and I came out for a little 
air instead. I think I must just put my nose 
inside the pines.” 

“ Don’t go far, Irralie ! ” 

“ Very well, George. So long ! ” 

She left him, passing through the narrow 
cut between the forge and the iron-store : 
partly because that was her bee-line for the 
beloved pines, and partly she knew not why. 
There was a small window high up at the 
back of the store. A human head w^ould 
hardly have passed through ; but when Irra- 
lie glanced up at the aperture her heart leapt 
to her throat. A white shirt-sleeve hung 
out in the moonlight, and a hand was strug- 
7 


98 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


gling to unscrew one of the nuts with which 
the sheets of iron were bolted together. 

Here — George ! ’’ cried Irralie, without 
a thought. 

He came running up ; but, ere he reached 
her, the shirt-sleeve had been whipped in, 
and something else had happened too. The 
girl was sorry she had called him. 

He'll escape ! ” she cried. I will tell 
you how.” 

She lowered her voice and pointed to the 
aperture. It was open. Could he not es- 
cape by that. 

Never ! ” he whispered. Your young 
brothers couldn't.” 

No? Yes, I see you're right. I must 
be nervous : I won't tackle the pines after 
all.” 

She followed him back through the cut, 
and as she did so a voice, low and bitter, 
came through the iron walls. 

Thank you. Miss Villi ers ! ” it said. ‘‘ I 
call that kind ! " 


CHAPTER IX 


TO SLOW MUSIC 

** Thank you. Miss Villiers ! I call that 
kind!^^ 

The words followed Irralie to her room, 
and kept her from her bed. They sang in 
her ears and were written in her brain. They 
were the words of a villain, and yet they cut 
her to the heart. They cut her so cruelly, 
and in such open and prolonged defiance of 
her reason, that the shameful truth came 
home to her at last. They were the words 
of a villain whom she loved. 

Yes, she had loved, as she had distrusted 
him, from the very first. That was why she 
had said nothing about the pistol. That was 
why she had suggested the lost overcoat. 
She had done this, and left that undone, on 
instinct simply. And instinctively she had 
loved him from the first. 


LofC. 


lOO 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


Her thoughts had been of him and him 
alone from the very moment of their meeting 
on the box-clump edge. In all her life she 
had known no such anguish as her doubts of 
him, and no such happiness as that brief 
spell of confidence restored. But trust and 
doubt were now two things of the past. 
Certainty took their place ; and yet the love 
remained. 

It was monstrous, it was grotesque, but it 
was nevertheless a fact to be faced. She had 
made so dire a fool of herself that she could 
laugh outright ; and did so, once, at a sud- 
den sight of her own image in the glass. 
She had never taken off her dress ; the mys- 
lin was no longer crisp ; the rowans drooped 
upon their stalks ; and at the thought of the 
mad folly underneath, she laughed in her own 
white face and burning eyes. But the laugh 
rang false and ended in a groan ; it did not 
help her to face the fact ; nor did she try to 
do so much longer, but resigned herself to 
her fate once and for all. 

She found it less easy, however, to re- 


TO SLOW MUSIC 


lOI 


Sign herself to the fate of the man she loved. 
He lay captive within thirty yards of her 
room. In the morning he would be taken 
away ; then tried ; then put in prison for 
the rest of his life ; and he so young ! It 
was terrible — unthinkable — but it should not 
be. But for her he would have broken 
prison already. She had not known her 
heart when she cried out to George Young ; 
but that cry had made her know it ; and 
now, if escape were possible, she would undo 
what she had then done by helping him to 
escape. 

So Irralie decided, with a trembling but 
a lightened heart. The difficulty and the 
danger removed the lens from her own feel- 
ings, turned her eyes outwards, and gave a 
new tone to herrnerves. Her practical side 
reasserted itself, and in an instant she was 
thinking how the thing could be done. 
And as she thought, the even breathing of 
a houseful of sleepers came through the thin 
wooden walls to encourage her. 

So the other women were all asleep ! 


102 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


Then surely there was little to be feared 
from the male encampment so much farther 
away ; and she would have to pit her wits 
against those of the established guard alone. 
She would outwit them, never fear ! She 
would give them a false alarm, and then tear 
open the door the moment their backs were 
turned. Thoughts wild as these darted 
through her brain in the first excitement of 
resolve ; but her preparations were no less 
swiftly and cunningly made. 

She changed her ball-slippers for a bed- 
room pair that would make no noise on the 
veranda. She enveloped herself from head 
to heel in an old, black waterproof cloak, 
which would never be seen in the shadow of 
a veranda or through the fronds of a pine. 
She put matches and a candle-end in her 
pocket ; and thus accoutred she crept out, 
shutting the door very softly behind her. 

The moon was setting in a blur of clouds ; 
that was one thing already in Irralie’s fa- 
vor. She stole to the corner of the front 
veranda, and peeped round very cautiously 


TO SLOW MUSIC 103 

for fear of rousing sleepy watchers from their 
chairs. There were none. The veranda 
was deserted ; so was the yard. The very 
sentinel had been withdrawn from the iron- 
store door. 

Irralie could scarce believe her eyes. Her 
heart beat high ; and yet the seeming safety 
had in ways a greater terror for her than 
danger seen and realized. She bent her 
head and listened intently. At first noth- 
ing; then a clink, then a laugh, in the 
middle distance, through closed doors ; and 
then a snatch of Mendelssohn, wonderfully 
played on the harsh old school-room piano, 
but with the soft pedal down all the time. 
Irralie listened with raised eyebrows and a 
hostile heart for the accomplished exquisite 
to whom she had not yet spoken a word. 
But a moment later she had her second 
glimpse of him. The Heder ended, a door 
opened, and out came the pianist with the 
strut of a game-cock and the carriage of a 
guardsman. One glance through his eye- 
glass at the iron-store, and he was gone as 


104 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

he had come ; and a comic song of Jevons’s, 
struck up that moment to his own vile ac- 
companiment, was cut short in the very first 
bar. 

Irralie now knew where the watchers were 
spending the night; but she was curious to 
discover of whom exactly the guard con- 
sisted, and whether music was its only joy. 
To peer through the passage and door by 
which the Englishman had come out and 
gone in again would, however, be rash, 
since the yard afforded no sort of cover. 
But there was the door at which Irralie her- 
self had stood and looked upon the pines ; 
she could therefore stand among the pines 
and look in at this door. And in two min- 
utes’ time she was actually doing so; nor 
had a twig cracked or a wire jingled on the 
way. 

The door was wide open, but Irralie was 
too far from it to see very much of the lamp- 
lit room within ; but she saw young Hod- 
ding, sprawled across a desk and fast asleep, 
and that half of the piano on the top of 


TO SLOW MUSIC 


105 

which stood bottles, glasses, and a bedroom 
ewer. This at first was all that was visible 
to Irralie through the door. Then Jevons 
came upon the narrow scene to help himself 
freely from a bottle and sparingly from the 
ewer; and the Englishman joined him, 
looking keenly in his flushed face, and as 
keenly at the prostrate tutor, before he him- 
self opened a bottle of soda - water, and 
poured it ostentatiously into a glass contain- 
ing no whiskey at all. 

All this time but little had been said, and 
still less had the girl been able to overhear. 
The first words she could distinguish were 
addressed by George Young (who was in- 
visible) to Jevons the storekeeper. 

Hodding’s drunk,” said he (in a voice 
which certified the speaker, at any rate, as 
beyond reproach); ‘‘and you mean to get 
drunker because you can stand more ! If 
I was Mr. Fullarton — well, I wish I 
was! ” 

The owner’s reply sounded tolerant, for 
him ; it was, however, inaudible ; and as he 


io6 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

spoke he went out once more by the other 
door, and returned briskly next moment. 

All well? ” asked Young. 

** Right as rain ! We might as well turn 
in.” 

^‘/sha’n’t. One never knows. Besides, 
there’s the police to fetch some time, and a 
horse ready saddled in the stable. If I had 
my way I’d fetch ’em now.” 

My dear, good fellow, where’s the 
point?” asked the Englishman, screwing 
round on the music-stool with his eye-glass 
flaming in the lamp-light. That chap’s 
all right ! We’ve tied him too tight to 
move. In any case, when there’s the least 
occasion for anybody to go, Mr. Young, 
you may rely upon due notice to that effect 
from me.” 

So saying, he turned abruptly to the 
piano; and Irralie, turning also, stole in 
deeper among the trees, with the first notes 
of Chopin’s funeral march in her ears, and 
clear in her brain the image of a very for- 
midable opponent indeed. He was brisk, 


TO SLOW MUSIC 


107 


alert, resolute, educated, masterful, indeed 
all one could wish one’s opponent not to 
be ; and the mannerisms of a coxcomb made 
him, even in the girl’s eyes, all the more 
dangerous a man. This she realized while 
making a considerable detour among the 
pines. But her determination was unshaken 
and her nerve only tuned to a higher pitch 
when she emerged from the plantation at 
the back of the iron -store. 

It was darker than ever, so that the an- 
gle of the prison roof was lost against the 
clouded blackness of the sky. And Irralie 
could touch the iron before she was sure 
that no face looked out upon her from the 
small square window. Yet the window was 
open, as it had been before. 

She stood on tip-toe to put her mouth to 
the wooden sill and whisper, “Are you 
awake ? ’ ’ 

“ Miss Villiers ! Can that be you? ” 

The voice came from the level of Irralie’s 
knees. “ I want to speak to you,” she said. 
“ Stand up, or we shall be heard.” 


io8 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

I can’t. They’ve tied me down by the 
hand. They handcuffed me down before, 
but I slipped the handcuff. ’ ’ 

‘^Well! I want to get you out alto- 
gether. ’ ’ 

What, after giving me away as you did 
to Young ? ’ ’ 

** I didn’t give you away at all. But I’ll 
have no more words about anything that’s 
past. I know what you are, and what you 
deserve. Another word about that and I 
leave you to your fate ! ’ ’ 

Very well ; let it rest. Have they sent 
for the police ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Not yet. I don’t know why not. 
They’re having quite a musical evening. I 
believe there’s a horse all ready in the 
stables. I mean that horse for you. Did 
you manage to move any of these nuts ? ’ ’ 

“ Not one.” 

“ No more can I. I’m going to look for 
a screw-hammer. Oh, I don’t care what 
you’ve done ! I want you to have this one 
more chance, and not be taken here ! ” 


TO SLOW MUSIC 109 

She was gone before he could reply. She 
went as she had come, and heard on the 
way the finish of the funeral march. Then 
came a difficulty. The screw-hammer was 
in the tool-box^ — the tool-box in the store. 
The store was locked, and the key, no 
doubt, in Jevons’s or George Young’s or the 
new owner’s pocket. 

She went to her room and racked her 
brains ; all she could think of was a box of 
boys’ tools in her brothers’ room. There 
might be a pair of pincers in that box, and 
a pair of pincers might do. In any case 
she would go and look. 

The boys were sleeping heavily : they did 
not hear her open the door, but one of them 
moved in his sleep as she struck a match and 
then shaded it with her hand. The tool- 
box was under their dressing-table. She 
carried it bodily to her room ; there 
pincers, and strong ones too. But would 
they answer ? 

She crept round the veranda once more, 
and was about to dart across to the pines 


I lO 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


at their nearest point when once again the 
spruce, straight figure in the gaiters and 
riding-breeches strode out into the yard. 
He stood there a moment whistling Chopin 
to himself, and looking about him smartly. 
The girl crouched down behind a chair. 
Then, to her horror, he walked in the di- 
rection of the iron-store. If his step should 
be taken for hers ! 

She saw him look at the padlock, and 
disappear between the two iron buildings. 
If he had done so five minutes before ! He 
was an age away ; indeed, she saw him no 
more; for, from where she crouched, the 
school-room building overlapped the iron- 
store; and when she could stay there no 
longer for suspense, and made a dash of it 
for the pines, she heard him talking to Young 
just as when she passed before. He had 
returned to the school-room by the other 
door, and precious minutes had been lost. 

I’d given you up ! ” 

"‘That man frightened me. Did you 
speak to him ? ’ ’ 


TO SLOW MUSIC 


III 


Nor he to you ? ” 

Only a word or tvvo.” 

I didn’t hear: so they wouldn’t hear 
us : but you must listen while I work. Lis- 
ten hardest when he’s not playing ! If they 
come you must make a noise, and I’ll get 
away while they’re opening the door.” 

You are very good.” 

Not a word about that — or anything 
else. Now let me try. Ah, how difficult 
to do it quietly ! ” 

For the pincers were large enough to bite 
the nuts, but first they snapped together, 
and then they banged heavily against the 
iron. Irralie desisted and held her breath 
in despair. The music had not recom- 
menced, and sure enough there came foot- 
steps ; but the prisoner instantly began 
beating with his head or his knee against 
the corrugated iron. 

‘‘ Stop that row ! ” 

What ! mayn’t I be musical, too? ” 

No, you may not.” 


112 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


Right you are.” 

The steps retreated. Irralie breathed 
again. Then with her fingers she felt for a 
dwarf sheet of iron ; most of them were as 
tall as herself, by some eighteen inches in 
width; but at last she found a short strip 
cut to fill a gap. It was between two and 
three feet in height, and it reached to the 
ground, where it was nailed to a horizontal 
slab of wood. Five bolts clamped it in all : 
one to the strip above and two at each side. 
Irralie tapped it gently about the centre. 

Are you anywhere near this?” 

Just behind ! ” 

Then if I can unscrew five nuts you are 
a free man.” 

She went to work on the first. Fold 
your handkerchief,” he whispered, *^and 
work through that. There will be less fear 
of a noise.” For now, when it was wanted 
most, the school-room piano was still. And 
the night was darker than ever, an unmixed 
blessing when a ray of moonshine would 
have meant discovery. But Irralie felt her 


TO SLOW MUSIC 


113 

way and persevered. And at last a nut 
budged. 

‘‘ One ! ” whispered Irralie. 

Loosen them all, but take none off yet.” 

The next moved readily ; the third stuck ; 
the fourth was the worst of all ; and the 
fifth was just yielding when the prisoner 
whispered, ‘‘ Stop ! ” 

Hear it? ” said George Young’s voice. 

“ Not a sound ! You’re becoming imag- 
inative. You’d much better go to bed.” 

Or for the police.” 

Oh, perdition seize the police ! I’ve a 
great mind not to have them called in at 
all! ” 

‘‘What?” 

“My good Young!” responded the 
other in his weariest drawl; “do not, for 
pity’s sake, scream at me like that ! It’s 
confoundedly ill-bred. If you’re too dense 
to see my point, come back to the school- 
room and let me explain it where we sha’n’t 
be overheard by the person most interested.” 

The voices ceased. 

8 


1 14 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

He didn’t speak to 7ne like that,” mut- 
tered the man in the iron-store. 

He’s an affected beast!” whispered 
Irralie, prettily, as she set down the pincers 
and began taking off the nuts with her 
naked fingers. 

‘‘Steady now. Miss Villiers. It may 
crack like thunder. Be prepared to run 1 ’ ’ 
So slowly, however, did she bend the 
sheet down, and with so firm a hand — 
slipped gradually to the base — on either 
side, that the task was accomplished all but 
noiselessly. The prisoner was revealed 
hunched up within. 

“ How have they bound you? ” 

“The bad hand tight to my body; the 
other and both my feet to a plough or 
something. ’ ’ 

“ I haven’t a knife.” 

‘ ‘ And I lost mine the other day 1 ’ ’ 

“ But I have my fingers — and patience,” 
said Irralie, ‘ ‘ if only there is time. Ah, 
thank Heaven for that ! ” The opening 
movement of the “ Moonlight Sonata ” had 


TO SLOW MUSIC 


come suddenly to their ears, played in the 
distance with improved precision, and as 
much feeling as the permanent soft pedal 
and the school-room piano would permit. 

Irralie knelt with head and arms through 
the aperture, and began upon the knot that 
bound his hand. His breath was on her 
cheek, but she got it undone. The feet 
were less elaborately secured, and he was 
able to help with his liberated hand. In 
five minutes from the unscrewing of the last 
nut he was free to rise, and yet too stiff to 
stir. 

At last he managed it with the loss of 
more time ; and more yet went in replacing 
the iron and lightly refixing three nuts. 
But on this he himself insisted, and Beet- 
hoven in the school-room still gave them 
warrant for delay. 

‘‘The pines!” quavered Irralie, near 
hysterics now that her own part was played. 
“Come quick — come quick! The long 
way round to the stables — by the stock-yards 
— by the tents — you follow me ! ” 


Ii6 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

Once through the wires — once well 
among the trees — they flew like birds, Irralie 
cutting deep and circling wide. It was ter- 
ribly dark, but the girl knew every inch of 
the ground. They passed the broken col- 
umn without a word. They skirted the 
tents so perilously that the snores of the 
occupants purred in their ears. Then once 
more through wires — Irralie held them apart 
for him — and so to the stables under cover 
of the night alone. But now there was 
neither moon nor star, nor as yet any sign 
of dawn in the inky sky. 

The stable had risen in front of them as 
from the ground ; they could have touched 
it with their hands, and were about to turn 
a corner of the long, low, pine-log building, 
when Irralie seized her companion’s arm 
and stopped him dead. 

Voices were approaching from the other 
side. 


CHAPTER X 


irralie’s deserts 

The voices were in dispute so warm that 
even the Englishman’s had lost something 
of its habitual drawling deliberation. But 
not until the speakers were inside the stable 
could the pair without catch a word. Then 
they heard everything through the cracks 
and crannies between log and log. 

“ Look you hear, my good Young ! This 
station is my property, and I don’t intend 
to have the police on the place at all.” 

“Very sorry, Mr. Fullarton ; but Mr. 
Villi ers is still manager of the station ; and 
I gave him my word they should be sent for 
hours ago. If you object, wake up the boss 
and settle it with him.” 

“ Of course, I won’t do that ! But I do 
object ; and I only wish you kept all your 
promises as well ! ” 


ii8 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER. 

** What do you mean ? ” 

You promised me to be responsible for 
the iron-store and our friend inside.” 

You kept saying he was so safe ! You 
yourself asked me in to have a drink ! ” 

Well, my good fellow, but if it comes 
to keeping one’s word ! You should prac- 
tise what you preach. No man can be in 
two places at once; you undertake to re- 
main in one, yet you want to go gallivant- 
ing after the police ! ’ ’ 

“ I can’t help it. The other young fools 
are not fit.” 

What about me ? ” 

“ You ! ” cried Young. 

‘‘Why not, my friend? Now look you 
here : let us understand each other. I 
don’t want the police at all. /want to put 
that chap in a buggy and tool him over to 
the police, with two or three of us, well- 
armed, beside him. He would never be 
idiot enough to try anything on, and the 
whole thing would be done quietly without 
fuss. That’s viy idea. I’ve said it till I’m 


IRRALIE'S DESERTS 


119 

sick of saying it ; but no, you must have the 
police and a public fuss, and our own men 
jeering at us and cheering Stingaree ! Very 
w'ell, my fine friend; I know a stubborn 
man when I meet one, and I give in. But 
if anybody goes for the police it shall be 
myself; only I don’t come back till they’ve 
been and gone ! ” 

The listeners heard a match struck, and 
smelt tobacco ; but see they could not, 
without searching for a cranny wider than 
its fellows ; and not a muscle had they 
moved as yet. 

‘^You wouldn’t know the way,” they 
heard Young answer. Which way did 
you come ? ’ ’ 

‘‘I believe through a howling desert you 
call the horse-paddock.” 

‘‘Well, when you get out of that you 
take the right-hand track ; not the left — 
that takes you to the Seven-mile. Follow 
the track to the right till you strike the 
stock-route and telegraph posts. Five miles 
along the stock-route — this time to the left. 


120 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


mind — and you come to the township and 
the police-barracks. But you’d much bet- 
ter let me go ! ” 

Not I, my good friend. I’ve heard 
a good deal of you young Australians ; let 
me see one of you stick to his post ! In ten 
minutes I shall be off ; but I must first go 
and fetch my valise. Come along, Mr. In- 
exorable Young ! ” 

And they were gone ; their voices dwin- 
dled and died ; and Irralie was peering at 
her ruffianly companion with an admiration 
sanctioned and concealed by the night. 

He was frightened to be left in charge 
of you ! ” she said. “ He’s not the man I 
took him for, after all. But be quick — the 
horse ! the horse ! ’ ’ 

They crept round to the stable-door, and 
found a -piebald mare standing saddled in 
the stall. 

Venus,” said Irralie, blowing out the 
match. “ She shows, but she can go ! Did 
you listen to those directions ? ” 

‘‘Yes.” 


IRRALIE’S DESERTS 


I2I 


‘ ‘ Then for mercy’s sake don’t follow them ! 
Now, have we given them long enough? 
Mount in here ; the stirrups might clink ; 
they’ll see nothing, but they might hear ! ” 

“For the life of me I don’t know why 
you are doing this ! ” 

“ Nor I.” Slie struck another match. 
“ Mount ! mount ! ” she cried in an agony. 
But the match only showed her a handsome, 
heedless face touched for once with tender- 
ness and concern. The dark eyes melted 
into hers ; she dropped the match and put 
it out with her foot. 

“ If they take you again,” she whispered, 
“ I shall die ! ” 

“ They sha’n’t. I am going. If I could 
only tell you ” 

“ Don’t try : go now : for my sake ! ” 

He was in the saddle. She caught up an 
armful of straw, and threw it on the ground 
to deaden the noise. He leant over the 
withers as she led the animal forth. 

“Promise me one thing,” he whispered, 
suddenly, “ or I sha’n’t go at all ! ” 


122 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


What ! ” 

“ To let no one dream it was you — to go 
straight to your room and stop there till 
broad daylight ! ” 

I promise — I promise.” 

Lives may depend upon it ! Good-by, 
then. God knows how I’ve deceived you ! 
I never hope to be forgiven ! ” 

‘‘Oh, go — go! You are breaking my 
heart ! ” 

She caught and wrung his extended hand, 
then flung it from her with a sudden gesture 
of despair. A touch with his heels, and he 
was gone at an amble ; a greater pace would 
have increased sound and risk alike ; and 
yet even the gentle rhythm of those unshod, 
ambling hoofs was like thunder in the ears 
of Irralie. Others must hear ! She crushed 
her thumbs into her ears and stood like one 
demented. When she removed them the 
sound was fainter, and still there was no 
other. She waited, however, with hardly a 
breath until all was still but her own heart, 
and a locust in the pines. Then for a space 


IRRALIE’S DESERTS 


123 


her strength failed her, and she leaned 
heavily against the stable wall. 

But her brain was busy all the time, and 
her heart with that lawless rider over every 
inch of the well-known ground. Now they 
w’ere at the horse-paddock gate; now gal- 
loping beyond in the teeth of their own 
wind. And so Irralie forgot for the mo- 
ment the one injunction she had received, 
the one promise she had given. When at 
length she came back to herself, and her 
own peril involving his, she ran like a deer 
to the station ; and very nearly into the 
arms of the last man she wanted to meet, 
who was stepping down from the veranda 
with his valise under his arm. 

Er — Miss Villiers, I presume?’' said 
he in his well-bred drawl ; and a hat was 
taken off with a little flourish in the 
dark. 

Irralie had instinctively determined to 
disarm suspicion with civility, and, simul- 
taneously, to delay to the last moment the 
discovery of the empty stable which would 


124 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


lead inevitably to that of the prisoner’s es- 
cape. She therefore said, graciously — 

How do you know ? ” 

It could be no one else. I have not 
had the privilege of seeing you before. And 
then, Miss Villiers, none but the very 
spirited would choose a night of alarms for 
a ramble in the small hours ! And that I 
find to be your reputation.” 

‘‘Indeed!” said Irralie. “I couldn’t 
sleep, that was all. ” 

“So?” 

“ I was listening to your delightful 
music ! ” said Irralie, who was charmed to 
find herself detaining him with such ease. 
He had actually sat down on the edge of 
the veranda, with the valise across his 
knees ; but at this last speech he sprang to 
his feet. 

“You heard me?” he cried. “I am 
sorry, and yet glad 1 Sorry to have kept 
you awake — I had no idea anybody could 
hear — and yet delighted to think I should 
have such a listener. And you say you were 


IRRALIE’S DESERTS 


125 


delighted too ! You appreciate ! You have 
a soul for it ! I am indeed glad that we 
have met, even at the eleventh hour ! May 
I light a cigarette and talk a little music for 
five minutes ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do — please ! ’ ’ said Irralie, with per- 
fectly sincere enthusiasm. 

“It is so refreshing to find anybody one 
call talk to up here ! The piano, of course, 
was execrable, though not much worse than 
the thing you had to dance to ; but it was 
in reasonably good tune, and one was glad 
to touch one again. I am going to send 
home for my Erard. Music one must have 
— especially in the desert — music and flow- 
ers. I mean to make this place one mass of 
geraniums ! Geraniums and pansies and 
sweet-williams. I love those old crude flow- 
ers ! ” 

He struck a match, and Irralie snatched a 
straw from the skirts of her cloak. She saw 
the rings blazing on his fingers as the to- 
bacco caught and burnt. To her disappoint- 
ment, however, instead of continuing the 


126 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


conversation, he looked at his watch by the 
match-light, and professed surprise at the 
time. It was after three o’clock. Not an- 
other moment could he stay. 

^‘But where are you going? ’’asked the 
guilty Irralie. 

‘‘To the township — for the police — en- 
tirely against what I believe to be my better 
judgment. I don’t intend to come back till 
they’re gone. I wonder. Miss Villiers, if 
you would come up to the stable and see me 
off?” 

Irralie hesitated in a tremor of nervous 
apprehensions; but decided to keep suspi- 
cion disarmed, and said, as best she could, 
“ Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Fullarton.” 
Her voice shook, however, and her knees 
trembled, as she followed him into the dark. 

“You sympathize with that poor beggar ! ” 
he startled her by saying as they walked. 

“ What makes you think that? ” 

“You weren’t at the supper-table. You 
were with him when he was taken. You 
seemed to like the fellow ! ” 


IRRALIE’S DESERTS 


127 


I did,” said the girl, honestly; ^‘and I 
do sympathize with him in a way. Ah, you 
have been brought up in England ; you can’t 
understand. A bush girl might be sorry for 
a bushranger, but it would pass your com- 
prehension altogether. It is only natural 
that it should.” 

I am not so sure about that ! ” 

The girl had spoken earnestly. It was 
good merely to find herself saying something 
that she really felt. But at his tone she 
threw reserve to the winds, and caught him 
by the sleeve on the very threshold of the 
empty stable. If she could prevail upon him 
not to enter it at all ! 

“Spare him!” she cried to that end. 
“ Oh, Mr. Fullarton, obey your better judg- 
ment and don’t go for the police at all. 
Think what will happen. They may hang 
him — and he a young man — as young as 
yourself! Give him a chance to escape; 
spare him, as you hope to be spared ! ’ ’ 

The other, however, only laughed, and 
entering the stable struck a match. But 


128 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


without a sign of surprise he flashed it from 
the empty stall into Irralie’s white face. 

“ Now, Miss Villiers! ” said he, coldly, 

what have you done with that horse ? ” 

‘‘I?” 

She swayed where she stood, taken utterly, 
hopelessly, by surprise. 

“Yes, you ! ” he answered with subdued 
ferocity. “You had come from this when 
I met you just now. I saw the straw on 
your cloak. You have let out that horse — 
confess the truth ! ’ ’ 

His manner acted on Irralie like a tonic. 
“I deny your right to question me,” she 
answered, with spirit ; “ nothing else ! Now 
let me pass. ’ ’ 

But he had stooped and picked up some- 
thing as the match burnt his fingers. And 
for hours after, as it seemed to Irralie, he 
stood and blocked her way in the dark si- 
lence of the tomb.^ 

“ At least you do things thoroughly,” he 
said at last, with his insolent sneer. “ You 
have let out not only the horse, but — Heaven 


IRRALIE’S DESERTS 129 

knows how ! — the man as well. He shed 
tj^is bandage in the straw ! ’ ’ 

Let me pass ! ” cried Irralie. This 

instant — or I call for help ! ’ ’ 

The answer came wdth a crisp, metallic 
click : 

“ Call at your peril ! I should be sorry 
to inconvenience a lady of your spirit, but 
the slightest sound will compel me to put 
a bullet through your heart ! ’ ’ 

** Mr. Fullarton ! ” gasped the girl. 

Not a bit of it,” he replied. Between 
ourselves, they call me Stingaree ! ” 


9 


CHAPTER XI 


THE REAL THING 

Irralie saw the whole truth in one blinding 
flash. And through all her terror there 
came an instant thrill of unutterable happi- 
ness. She loved and had delivered an in- 
nocent man ; pure thankfulness for his inno- 
cence was her first overwhelming emotion ; 
her next — was different. But it was charac- 
teristic of Irralie’s case that even now she 
thought last of herself and the extremity she 
was in. To this, however, she was speedily 
recalled by the cool drawl of her villainous 
companion. 

“ Well ! I never saw anything fall so 
- flat ! ” said he. Still, iPs a matter for con- 
gratulation that you didn’t sing out. I 
should certainly have shot you dead ! ” 


You dare not ! ” 


THE REAL THING 


131 

Try me. I should then discover the 
open prison and my own crime ! It would 
be very neat.” 

‘‘You beast ! ” said Irralie. 

“ Thank you. I am one. But it’s your 
own fault, Miss Villiers, if you force me to 
show my bestial side to you ; I assure you 
I’ve no wish to do so. I want a horse. 
You took the one that was here, and you will 
very kindly help me to find another.” 

“Very well,” said Irralie, wondering 
whether Fullarton was yet half-way to the 
police-barracks. “ We must go to the horse- 
paddock. You lead the way.” 

“ No. I prefer to see you in front of me. 
And I shall need saddle and bridle, so you will 
be good enough to show me to the saddle- 
room. But please, my dear young lady, to 

remember that one cry ” 

“ Oh, I’m not likely to forget that ! ” 
And Irralie led him out, and round the 
building to the saddle-room door, with a 
coolness that surprised herself. But she was 
still thinking more of the honest man who 


132 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

had flown than of the rufflan left behind to 
her cost. Was the one so very honest after 
all? She felt more hurt by his harmless 
dissimulation at the last than she had ever 
been by the gross fraud of which she had 
suspected him up to the end. Nor could 
she see any reason for it; forgetting how 
determined she had been not to hear from 
him a single word of self-defence; forget- 
ting, also, how plainly she had shown him 
that determination. Even his ready flight 
for the police struck her in an unheroic 
light ; and that view of him was the hardest 
of all to bear. 

The bushranger had struck matches and 
put a saddle over his arm. He now took 
down a side-saddle (Irralie’s own) and put 
it on top of the other, with a bridle to spare. 
This put an end to Irralie’s thoughts. 

‘‘ Who’s that for ? ” she gasped. 

For you, of course.” 

** For me ! ” 

Well, obviously I can’t leave you here 
to raise an earlier alarm than there will be 


THE REAL THING 


133 


in any case. And I’d much rather not tie 
you to a tree. But it’s either that or 
setting me on my way. What do you 
say? ” 

I am in your hands,” she replied; but 
a great thought was leaping in her heart. 
On foot she was utterly at the mercy of this 
infamous armed man. But she was a first- 
rate horse-woman, and in the saddle she 
might at least elude him. 

“ This is about as much as I can carry on 
one arm, and your spirit compels me to leave 
the other one free in case of need,” said 
Stingaree. “ I must therefore ask you to be 
so good as to carry my valise. It is very 
ungallant, but you leave me no choice.” 

The valise lay on the ground. Irralie 
picked it up. Its heaviness surprised her, 
and the contents rattled under her arm. 

‘‘Its weight don’t represent its worth,” 
remarked the bushranger, opening the door 
for Irralie with his revolver- point. “It 
would be an uncommon poor haul but for 
those Quandong diamonds. And now I 


134 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

think we’ll talk no more until we’ve given 
this place a rather wider berth.” 

Nor did they, but passed in silence so 
close to the back veranda that Irralie could 
have thrown a stone through the open win- 
dow of her empty room. She wondered 
whether she should ever see it again. For 
her brain was now teeming with daring proj- 
ects and attempts, for which her present 
submission was but to pave the way. And 
to pave it the more effectively, when he 
spoke again she replied with a suavity not 
inferior to his own. 

He had said, Upon my word. Miss 
Villiers, I am ashamed to have to treat you 
like this ! ” 

‘‘I am sure you are,” replied Irralie. 
“ But there’s one thing you might do to 
pass the time.” 

Only tell me what ! ” 

^‘You might explain exactly how you 
planned and carried out this conspiracy. 
It would edify me, and it couldn’t hurt 
you.” 


THE REAL THING 


135 


My dear young lady, with all my 
heart,” replied Stingaree. “I ask no 
greater privilege than to afford you any lit- 
tle compensation in my power. The facts 
of the case are very simple. Last Saturday 
morning nothing was farther from our 
minds; but we had been engaged upon 
some trifling business on the Balranald road, 
and as that was blocked against us north 
and south we thought it best to strike a 
straight line east across the fenced country. 
Late in the afternoon we came to your 
boundary, but had no notion of looking you 
up, when we lit on a beautifully dressed 
young man, equally well-mounted, but hope- 
lessly lost in the bush. Well, Howie’s 
horse was dead-beat, for we had been push- 
ing the pace a bit; and Howie’s clothes 
were dead-beat also ; and Howie himself be- 
ing not more than a size or so larger than 
that young gentleman, both in height and 
build ” 

And I never thought of that before ! ” 
‘‘No, Miss Villiers? Well, you weren’t 


136 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


meant to ; though the last thing we hoped 
for was that our young gentleman would 
keep the incident to himself. You may 
hear from him why he did, and when you 
do I should like to know. To proceed, 
however, we stuck him up (to use a vile ex- 
pression) in due course ; and Howie and he 
exchanged horses and clothes ; and Howie 
nearly spoilt everything by leaving a loaded 
shooter in the coat he took off. However, 
as our friend hadn’t condescended to put it 
on up to the time we left him, no harm was 
done. Howie, I should explain, is my mate 
(to employ another barbarism) ; and a very 
worthy soul, though no gentleman. But here 
we are at last at the horse-paddock gate ! ” 
It was open ; probably Fullarton had 
been unable to shut it with his one hand ; 
nevertheless, it conveyed to Irralie the pict- 
ure of a man galloping for his life and those 
of his friends ; and her heart softened as it 
leapt again. Nor was there a horse to be 
seen from the gate. And before striking 
into the paddock to look for one, the bush- 


THE REAL THING 


137 

ranger hung the saddles over the top bar to 
rest his arm. 

^‘And where have you both been ever 
since?” inquired Irralie, finessing still, but 
also interested to know. 

“Aha! ” said he. “I’m not sure that 
I shall tell you that. Yet I don’t know; 
have you ever heard of a man they call 
Deaf Dawson ? ’ ’ 

“Heard of him! Why, he drives the 
whim at our Seven-mile.” 

“ Yes ; but did you never hear my name 
coupled with his? I don’t mean my real 
name. There’s not a soul in the Colony 
knows that. But Stingaree ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, I have,” said Irralie. “He was 
said to have known you.” 

“ To have been my mate ! That’s more 
like it. He and Howie and I once stood 
in together — before we were quite so well 
known. Now can you guess where we’ve 
been since Saturday ; and who told us you 

were going to have all the back-blocks at 

» 

the station last night ; and who came in 


138 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

with Howie to the men’s hut, and found out 
that the new chum had been too ashamed 
to explain away his old clothes, and was 
looked on with suspicion because of them ? 
I think it must be obvious ; and now we’ll 
catch that horse. ’ ’ 

Obvious it was ; and Irralie’s heart sank 
quicker than it had risen. She had relied 
upon Deaf Dawson. He was a man not 
generally liked upon the station ; a man 
who kept himself to himself in his outlying 
hut, where he was seldom visited by any- 
body except on business. But Irralie had 
stopped in her rides to shout into his ear- 
trumpet. And she had credited the man 
with some slight fondness 'for her; and had 
determined to put it to the test, if fortune 
favored her with a faster horse than might 
fall to Stingaree. She now knew what to 
expect at the deaf man’s hands. 

But she was glad that she had steeled her- 
self to converse with Stingaree. Here was 
one good thing come of it already ; it was 
very good indeed to be forewarned. She 


THE REAL THING 


139 


must now think of some other plan ; and as 
she thought, they were walking off the track 
among the salt-bush in search of horses ; 
and as they walked half-a-dozen came sud- 
denly like phantoms across their path. 

Stingaree caught one adroitly, and Irralie 
was no less quick to secure another by the 
mane. She was as anxious as he to be in 
the saddle ; and the saddling fell to her, 
while Stingaree stood at the horses’ heads. 
So Irralie left the girths of the man’s saddle 
judiciously loose ; but when he had helped 
her to mount he would not let her handle 
her own reins ; and before mounting himself 
he tightened his girths without a word. So 
they rode on together in silence at a steady 
canter, and the girl’s hands were empty of 
rein or switch. Her mount was a quiet, in- 
offensive buggy-horse ; and his, one of her 
small brother’s ponies. Short of the farther 
gate, he pulled them both up suddenly. 

‘‘Do you know,” said he, “that your 
father is a very innocent man ? ’ ’ 

“ Indeed ! ” said Irralie, who had thought 


140 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


often and bitterly of her father since falling 
into the clutches of this wretch. 

Yes ! Just imagine the skipper turning 
in with a dangerous pirate in irons in his 
deck-house ! Nice thing to do, was it not ? ’ ’ 
Irralie would not speak ; that very thought 
had been her own. 

‘‘Well,” proceeded the other, “you 
mustn’t be too hard on the poor unfortunate 
skipper ! He has bad teeth. He men- 
tioned the matter to me. I asked to see 
the inside of his medicine-chest, and ever 
since he’s been lying on his own store 
floor, full to the nose with chloral ! I 
thought it a good thing done,” he con- 
cluded, laughing ; ‘ ‘ but I only wish to 

heaven I could have got quit of that con- 
founded pig-headed overseer as cheap ! ’ ’ 
Still Irralie refused to speak; and now 
they were at the farther gate. This also 
had been left open; but it had swung to 
again ; and as Stingaree leaned over to push 
it open, Irralie raised the pommel which she 
had unscrewed from her saddle, and struck 


THE REAL THING 


141 

the screw with all her might into the hand 
that held her reins. In another instant she 
was through the gate and galloping headlong 
into the paddock beyond. 

A scream, an oath, a shot, and then the 
tattoo of the pony’s hoofs pursued her into 
the night; but as yet the latter showed no 
sign of lifting; and Irralie felt that she 
could risk the random shots. Five followed 
her in quick succession, and one hummed 
past her ear. But she had straddled her 
mount, and hid her face in the mane, and 
her first great anxiety was at rest. She had 
retrieved her reins without getting them 
hobbled about the horse’s legs. 

The shots gave Irralie (what his polite 
threats and elaborate phrases had hitherto 
denied her) a sufficiently lurid insight into 
the ferocious nature of the man against whom 
she had pitted herself. Not that she was 
filled with any special loathing for the das- 
tard who would empty his revolver upon a 
defenceless girl ; never in the habit of claim- 
ing peculiar protection on the strength of 


142 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


her girlhood, she had in this case lost sight 
of sex, and, fully conscious that it was she 
who had struck the first shrewd blow, she 
was as fully ready for reprisal in kind. 
Nevertheless, the instant shooting was a 
revelation of character which prepared her 
for death at those bloody hands, should she 
again fall into them. But of this she never 
seemed in serious danger ; a short, sharp 
chase over the salt-bush and through the 
scrub, and the chase was over; either the 
pony had stumbled, or the rider had de- 
cided that his own flight was the first con- 
sideration. Irralie, at all events, found her- 
self cantering quite alone under a wide, sable 
sky; and the discovery filled her with an 
awe for which there had been no time in 
the heat of the chase itself. What was she 
to do ? There were but two gates to the 
paddock ; was she to go on to the one at 
the whim, and risk the villains there ; or 
should she return to the gate at which she 
had committed her assault, and perhaps fall 
in with the greatest villain of them all, who 


THE REAL THING 


143 


would certainly murder her now? There 
were two other courses. She might hide all 
night in the heart of the paddock — say in 
that very clump where she had first seen Ful- 
larton — or she might strike the horse-pad- 
dock fence, strap down the wires, lead her 
horse across, and so gallop back to the 
homestead and give the first alarm. She 
felt that she would risk something to do even 
that ; and decided, after a horrible minute, 
in which she could only hear her own horse 
panting, upon the last-named course. 

She gained the fence ; she dismounted 
and strapped down the wires ; she was her- 
self in the horse-paddock, tugging at the 
reins ; but the old buggy-horse had not 
made the leap when the hoofs of another 
broke upon her terrified ears, first gallop- 
ing, then trotting, and finally only ambling 
down the fence. But the girl was too panic- 
stricken to attempt to mount. And, just as 
the sky seemed a shade lighter from rim to 
rim, and a breath of wind blew in the morn- 
ing, Stingaree reined up leisurely at her side. 


144 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

‘‘ Waiting for you at the gate,” said he. 

You should have struck the fence higher 
up.” 

He slipped off and led his mount back 
into the paddock which Irralie’s had never 
left. Then he undid the straps and put 
Irralie in her saddle again without a word 
on either side. Not one syllable about the 
blow she had dealt him ; but there was now 
a crust of blood upon the hand that held 
her reins ; and his features, which the night 
had hidden, became clearer every moment, 
with their weeping whiskers, the glass shin- 
ing in one eye, and an expression so malev- 
olent as to make the silence more sinister 
than any speech. 

They cantered to the track, and thence 
onward to the whim ; but its timbers were 
slow to appear against the sky, for the dawn 
was breaking at their backs. Irralie never 
opened her mouth ; but once the bushranger 
seemed to her to slacken the pace for the 
express purpose of humming the 30th of 
the Lieder Ohne Worte to the time of the 


THE REAL THING 


145 


pony’s hoofs. And about five o’clock in 
the morning they reached the whim -driver’s 
hut. 

A big, black-bearded, round-shouldered 
ruffian, looking grotesque in a white tight 
collar and a full suit of fashionable tweeds, 
all too small for him, stood at the door and 
expressed profane surprise at the sight of 
Irralie. But,” said he, we’ve got a bit 
of a startler for you, too, boss ! ’ ’ The 
light-eyed, thick-set, iron-gray whim-driver 
took down his ear-trumpet and turned away 
without a word. As for Irralie, she saw the 
red light of a fire in the hut as she dis- 
mounted, and she entered, calculating that 
it was thirteen miles from the station to the 
police barracks, but that Fullarton should 
have covered them by quarter-past four. 
And next moment she saw him before her 
eyes ; he was standing in his shirt-sleeves 
with his back to the fire, and with an indo- 
lent, half-amused, wholly characteristic ex- 
pression, which froze upon his face, how- 
ever, as their eyes met. 


10 


CHAPTER XII 


THE MEN AT THE HUT 

‘arralie! ” 

Mr. Fullarton ! ” 

‘‘Well! what in blazes brought him 
here?” 

The three speakers stood aghast in a com- 
mon stupefaction. It was impossible to 
choose between their blank, incredulous 
faces. But Stingaree’s eye-glass was swing- 
ing on its cord ; and he turned upon huge 
Howie with the savage alacrity of a man 
uncertain of his friends. 

“Easy does it, mister; he's all right,” 
responded Howie, in a heavy deferential 
manner that fitted him no better than Ful- 
larton’s clothes. “ ' E' s done brown ; come 
here to get the deaf ’un to go back with ’im 
and swear ’e wasn’t Stingaree ! So ’e turn- 


THE MEN AT THE HUT 


147 


bles into a bloomin’ ’ornet’s nest for his 
pains, an’ very near gets stung by a lump o’ 
lead ; only we was two to one, w’ich settles 
it out o’ court. But we now delivers ’im 
over to you, and glad to get the beggar off 
of our ’ands.” 

Fullarton had handed Irralie to an old 
soap-box (in lieu of a chair) by the fire- 
side ; of the others he took no more notice 
than to nod to her in confirmation of 
Howie’s report. The latter had a marked 
effect upon Stingaree. 

“Excellent!” cried he, with the lop- 
sided grin of all eye-glassed men. “ I pict- 
ured those dear good troopers a paddock 
behind us; and behold them still in their 
beds ! Your hand, my friend, your horny 
hand ! It’s a near thing yet though. 
Where’s that ear-trumpet? ” 

It hung round the deaf-man’s neck, as he 
knelt scowling over the billy-can upon the 
fire. Stingaree seized it, thrust the end 
into the other’s ear, and roared through the 
trumpet, “Tea for the lot of us, quick as 


148 IRRALIE^S BUSHRANGER 

you know how!” Dawson growled, but 
threw a handful of tea into the can as the 
water broke out in bubbles ; and Irralie 
watched him from her seat beside the fire. 
He refused to look at her. His face was as 
dark as aloes against its mat of iron-gray 
hair ; his expression as bitter. 

While the tea drew, Stingaree took 
Howie aside. They whispered together at 
the door, and the coarse, big man in the 
fine, tight collar and clothes, and the little 
whiskered dandy — all weapons and jewels — 
made a quaint pair, framed in the doorway, 
touched on one side by the warm fire-light, 
and on the other by that of the raw red 
east. Fullarton never forgot them. But 
Irralie, after failing in all her efforts to 
catch the deaf man’s sullen eye, was com- 
paring Fullarton and Stingaree. And here 
the contrast was the more remarkable in 
that both had good looks; yet the ready, 
energetic, strutting bantam of a man was 
not only a stronger figure than his heedless, 
indolent, hare-brained captive; he looked 


THE MEN AT THE HUT 


149 


still, and in the teeth of the facts, the like- 
lier gentleman of the two. 

“They’re listening — the two of ’em! ” 
cried Howie, suddenly. “ They can ’ear 
every word;, let’s get outside.” 

Stingaree looked round the hut; there 
was but the one door, and no window save 
those on either side of it ; inner compart- 
ment there was none, and the floor was 
honest earth. 

“All right — a few yards,” said he. “I 
tell you, Howie, I mean to have my way ; 
and ygu know what that means. So let’s 
fix it here on the spot. You may go to the 
devil or stop where you are. I’ll have my 
way about the girl ! ’ ’ 

Howie’s reply was inaudible; they were 
well outside the hut ; but before Irralie and 
Fullarton could exchange more than glances, 
he was back, and had snatched the ear- 
trumpet from the deaf man’s neck. Daw- 
son turned round with a curse, his face 
scrubbed by the cord; but Howie was 
gone, and the other made no attempt to 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


150 


rise or follow, but only darkened his scowl 
as he stirred the tea and added sugar for 


all. 


‘‘I know what that means,” said Fullar- 
ton. We’re not to get at him. We shall 


see ! ” 


He took a twig from a heap of logs by 
the fire, and scratched with his left hand on 
the bare, sandy ground — 

HELP us AND YOU ARE SAFE. 

Fullarton then pulled the whim -driver’s 
arm, and pointed to the words. The deaf 
man looked at them and got up to get pan- 
nikins without moving a muscle of his 
face. 

Can he read? ” asked Fullarton. 

‘‘Yes; I have brought him papers my- 
self. You should make it plainer.” 

Fullarton picked up the twig and printed 
underneath the former line, but in charac- 
ters twice the size — 


I DOUBLE YOUR SCREW. 

\ 



THE MEN AT THE HUT 


“You do, do you?” said Dawson’s voice 
above his head. It trembled with anger; 
and next moment Dawson’s heels had ob- 
literated every word. He said no more, 
however, but only glared at Fullarton with 
quivering fists. And when he had dipped a 
pannikin in the tea, he spilled some of it 
before he could set it down at Irralie’s 
feet. 

“Hopeless!” said Fullarton. “They 
are three to one.” 

“ For mercy’s sake try no resistance ! ” 

“ I fear it would be useless — though the 
sporting thing to do.” 

“ Don’t dream of it ! He sticks at noth- 
ing. He has emptied a revolver upon me 
already 1 ’ ’ 

“ Upon you ? ” 

The words came hoarsely from a face 
which Irralie could scarcely recognize, so 
transfigured was it with horror and rage and 
incredulity. 

“Yes! I struck him first — with the 
screw-end of my pommel — on the hand. 


152 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

His blood was up ; but he would do it 
again ! ” 

‘‘Would he?” cried Fullarton, as his 
eye roved about for a weapon; and then, 
“It was my fault ! ” he bitterly exclaimed. 
“ I should never have left you there ! But 
you promised to keep out of the way ; and 
not one of them would have stood by me 
without some proof on my side ; and this 
blackguard was my only hope ! ’ ’ 

“ Not one? ” said Irralie, in a low voice. 
“Not I?” 

“ Not even you.” 

“ I think I did stand by you ! ” 

“ But not because you believed in me ; 
out of the pure compassion of your heart ; 
however, let that rest. It would only have 
terrified you to know the truth just then. 
And I argued that he was on his good be- 
havior as long as he kept up the game ; but 
I was wrong, wrong, wrong ! ’ ’ 

He spoke so bitterly that the girl’s eyes 
filled with tears ; or it may have been the 
way in which a slice of cold plum-duff had 


THE MEN AT THE HUT 153 

been placed beside her pannikin without a 
word. In the ensuing silence the raised 
voices of the men outside carried to the ears 
of those within. 

‘‘ Then that’s settled. We shan’t fall 
out about it. Thy homy hand once 
more ! ” 

I don’t want no barney, you know,” 
said the voice of Howie the humble. 

“ Nor I; but, by heaven, I mean her to 
pay for it ! Now you go inside, and I’ll 
fetch along the piebald moke myself.” 

Irralie sprang to her feet and looked at 
Fullarton in sudden terror ; and Fullarton 
laid his hand firmly on her shoulder, while 
Dawson, now sitting on his heels in front of 
the fire, had one eye for them and one for 
the doorway of cold pink sky. As Howie 
filled it with his powerful frame, the deaf 
man seized a log and hurled it at his body, 
then leapt upon him like a cat, dug his 
fingers inside the tight white collar, and 
cracked the great skull like an egg against 
the door-jamb. The thing was done in an 


154 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


instant, and the two men on the ground in 
a heap, with Howie insensible on top. 
The thud of their fall had been the only 
sound. 

‘‘Pull him off, sir!” gasped Dawson. 
“ He’s paid me out ! ” 

Fullarton tugged at the great limbs one 
after the other — at his own riding - boots 
pinching the ruffian’s feet — until Dawson 
was free to rise but did not move. 

“ His shooter, sir, his shooter 1 ” 

Fullarton found it — loaded in every 
chamber — and signed to the deaf man to 
get up. He shook his head. 

‘ ‘ My leg’s broke, sir ! He’s paid me out. ’ ’ 
His left foot lay as if it did not belong to 
him. Fullarton knelt and examined. 

“ It’s true,” said he. “We must shift 
him too. Lend a hand, Irralie.” As the 
girl did so a smile broke over the deaf 
man’s face. 

“I didn’t know whether I’d do it till I 
did it,” said he; “but I didn’t want no 
bribes ! It’s all I can do for you. You 


THE MEN AT THE HUT 155 

must fix up Stingaree. Pot him as he comes 
in ; it’s our only chance.” 

Fullarton unwound the bandages from his 
wounded hand, stretched his fingers, and 
gripped and cocked Howie’s revolver. His 
dark eyes danced. 

‘‘I mean to do so,” said he. ‘^Irralie, 
keep out of the way — turn your head and 
shut your ears ! ” 

The girl obeyed — trembling as she had 
not trembled all the night. It was the 
worst of all, this waiting. Fullarton stood 
at one side of the door with the revolver. 
Howie had never moved. 

Then the horse’s hoofs and a man’s feet 
were heard approaching through the sand, 
preceded by a whistle, high and clear and 
wonderfully sweet. He was whistling Men- 
delssohn again ! Suddenly, as if a yard 
from the door, it broke off ; the man’s walk 
became a run ; he was in the hut, with 
swinging eye-glass and whiskers flying, and 
had shouted, “Quick ! they are on us ! ” 
before Fullarton cut him short. 


156 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

“ Up with your hands,” said he. It’s 
your turn now ! ” 

And when George Young and Mr. Vil- 
liers had reined up at the Seven-mile, they 
found Irralie like a ghost outside in her ball- 
dress; and, standing in the doorway, with 
his back to them, and a cocked revolve^ 
showing over his shoulder, a well-built fig- 
ure in black trousers and white shirt-sleeves. 

“Excuse me,” said Fullarton ; “but I 
daren’t take my eye off him. Creep in 
under my left arm. The beggar stuck me 
up on Saturday afternoon, but I swore I 
wouldn’t tell you till I got even with him ; 
and, by the powers, I’ve kept my word ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII 


p. s. 

At the age of sixty-eight, the late Lord 
Fullarton, who had been no traveller in his 
yoilth, set out to winter in Australia against 
all advice ; and returned to tell of his ex- 
periences for another decade. 

He landed in Melbourne one October, and 
sailed from Sydney in the following March, 
but saw no other cities ; spending the whole 
of his time (with the exception of short vis- 
its to such near neighbors as, for example, 
the Quandong people) upon his son’s River- 
ina station of Arran Downs. And he found 
Greville (who was on the tug to meet him in 
Hobson’s Bay) rather stout, very brown, 
bearded to the chest, but most altered by an 
extraordinary access of energy and enthu- 
siasm ; and very full indeed of the merits 


158 IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 

and character of his own son, then six 
months old. 

Grandchildren were no novelty to Lord 
Fullarton, whose saintliest son was not a 
celibate ; and the nature of the wife, whom 
Greville had picked up in the bush, pro- 
voked a more apprehensive curiosity than 
that of the child. This lasted until the ex- 
act moment when Irralie was seen rushing 
from the veranda with both hands out- 
stretched, unable to say a word, but with her 
eyes divinely glistening with love and wel- 
come. And of those same orbs Lord Fullar- 
ton talked so freely, when he did get home, 
that there were small jealousies in the family ; 
too small to speak about, however, and in- 
dulged in only by the husbands of the other 
wives, not the wives themselves. 

Never saw such eyes in my life ! ” said 
he. ‘‘The moment I looked in them my 
mind was at rest; and I wasn’t mistaken. 
She is a girl with a true religious feeling ; 
uncultivated, no doubt, but deep, and sin- 
cere, and strong. The only pity is that 


P. s. 


159 


they haven’t a church within a hundred 
miles of them. But I was glad to find that 
Greville was keeping up the excellent custom 
of a Sifnday evening service, started by that 
good man, Irralie’s father — who is, without 
a doubt, one of the Villierses, though it had 
never occurred to him till I made the wel- 
come discovery. He is now managing an 
even larger station for the same company 
which used to own Arran Downs ; we paid 
them a visit, and they keep up the evening 
service; but, to my horror, they neither 
stood to praise nor knelt to pray ; and when 
w^e turned to the east they thought some- 
thing was the matter. Irralie was so tractable 
in such things. We had two services every 
Sunday while I was there, and early celebra- 
tion once a month. I only wish they could 
continue it ! I wanted to send them out a 
chaplain ; some young fellow with weak lungs 
might be very glad, and would tutor the boy 
in due course. It is certainly the grandest 
climate in the world ; hot, but deliciously dry, 
and the night-air exactly like champagne I ’ ’ 


i6o 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


One thought Lord Fullarton had a way of 
expressing aloud, and quite apart from any 
context, especially in his last illness. ‘‘ And 
so fond of her husband ! ” he would end 
long silences by exclaiming. I never saw 
anything like it in my life ! ” 

‘‘You mean Irralie, of course ? ” 

“Well, my dear, I did; and you’ll .un- 
derstand it when they come over. I was 
thinking of the day after I got there. They 
had been telling me the rights of that ex- 
traordinary affair which got into the papers, 
you remember, immediately after Greville’s 
arrival. They don’t know yet who the 
wretched man really was; but he’s in Dar- 
linghurst Gaol, at Sydney, for the term of 
his life ; and I felt I should like to visit him 
when I was there, but the authorities dis- 
suaded me. Well, they had shown me the 
pianos he played on, and Greville had ex- 
plained (what I never could quite under- 
stand) why it was he didn’t himself say what 
had happened to him when he first arrived. 
The whole affair hinged on that, if you re- 


P. s. 


i6i 


member ; but I quite understood when he 
told me what was the general attitude tow- 
ard young fellows from home, or ‘ new 
chums,* as they call them in the bush. They 
are always ready to make fools of them, as 
Greville found out on his way up-country ; 
and he felt his life wouldn’t be worth living 
there if he arrived upon the scene with such 
an ignominious tale. So he kept it to him- 
self. And the very next day after my ar- 
rival, Irralie took me out in a buggy and 
showed me just where everything happened. 

‘ ‘ She showed me the clump of trees and 
the exact spot where she and Greville first 
met, and the gate where she escaped from 
the bushranger, and the place in the fence 
where the wretched man recaptured her. 
On the farther side of that same paddock 
(as they call it) is the Seven-mile hut where 
the tables were eventually turned. But we 
didn’t go quite as far on that occasion ; and 
when we got back, Irralie showed me a 
most impressive thing — a clearing in a pine 
plantation, and the grave of a poor young 


ir 


i 62 


IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER 


fellow who was shot by another outlaw some 
years before. His family had actually had 
a broken column sent up from Melbourne 
and erected to his memory in that desolate 
spot. I was only sorry it was not a cross. 

^ ‘ But it was Greville who took me into 
the iron-store in which they shut him up, 
and from which Irralie helped him to es- 
cape. He showed me the sheet of corru- 
gated iron she unfastened to get him out. 
They keep it in their room to this day. ’ * 

Lord Fullarton had made friends with 
many of the men, who, it is to be feared, 
did not always receive his ministrations in 
the spirit his simple mind supposed. He 
described his son, however, very justly, as 
being particularly fortunate in his over- 
seer; an earnest-minded young man with 
whom I had many conversations on spiritual 
matters. He has been on the station for 
years, and is not likely to leave (I should 
say), judging by his really beautiful devo- 
tion to Greville and Irralie alike, to say 
nothing of the boy. ’ ’ And another charac- 


R S. 


163 


ter who impressed him was a decent, 
rugged soul, who does all the odd jobs about 
the homestead, and is Irralie’s factoiuin ; un- 
luckily, the poor fellow is quite deaf, but I 
both spoke and read into his ear-trumpet, 
and he faithfully promised to be con- 
firmed.” 

The great wish of his last months was to 
live long enough to see his son and Irralie 
when they brought the boy over to send him 
to his first school. And this wish crystal- 
lized in the desire to look once more in Ir- 
ralie’s eyes. 

‘ ‘ They are like her own native skies, ’ ’ 
said the late lord, simply. I never saw 
them wet, nor yet cloudy, but twice while I 
was there. The first time was when I ar- 
rived, and the second when I bade her 
good-by.” 

But there came a third. 


THE END. 


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